Running To You
by The Urban Spaceman
Summary: The Winter Soldier is running. From himself, from the authorities, and from the face of a man who haunts his past, torments his present and looms over his future. But for how long can you run, and how far can you go, when your greatest adversary also happens to be your best friend? Set directly after TWS. CW-compliant.
1. The One That Got Away

_Author_ _'s Note: Amnesiacs are so much fun; I just can't resist. I've been having such a blast with my amnesiac Deadpool, that I thought I'd pick up another tortured soul… and then torture him a bit more, as is my general wont. This story will undoubtedly contain spoilers for the entire Cap trilogy; The First Avenger, The Winter Soldier and Civil War. Consider thyself warned._

 _This story updates_ _… oh, let's say every fortnight. Eight chapters hammered out so far; aiming for ten, but I might go to twelve. Depends on how much torturin' needs doing. Questions, comments, criticisms… use the box or send a PM._

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Running To You

 _1\. The One That Got Away_

"Papa, papa, look, I got one!"

The child's excited calls reached ears alert for sounds of danger. Feet hesitated, then stopped. The Winter Soldier, feeling more battered and bruised than he could ever remember in his life, and clutching a painfully throbbing arm to his chest, lowered himself into a crouch and slipped silently forward, squatting behind a bush to look out towards the river bank.

"Hold it there, son, I'll help you bring it in."

The father took up position behind the boy, large hands grasping the long pole in a firm grip, whilst smaller hands worked the reel. The pole bent at the farthest end as the prey fought for its life, and the father offered encouraging words to the boy. Mere seconds later, a large, gasping fish was flopping around on the river bank. The man picked it up by the tail and held it aloft for his son to see.

"A fine catch, Christopher. You wanna get a picture with him before we throw him back?"

A grin flashed across the boy's face. "Yeah!"

An aching pang tore at something inside the Soldier's chest. _Broken. I am broken._ He'd experienced such pangs before, usually followed by intense flashes of… something. Dream? Memory? Imagination? He didn't know. He'd never been allowed to know. Each time the flashes started, each time he began to ask questions, he was strapped into a chair and something was done to him. Then he went to sleep, and the next time he woke up, he remembered the pangs and flashes only as a catalyst for pain.

His metal hand curled into a fist as the boy posed before a slim phone's camera. The father then took the hook out from the fish's mouth, and together they threw the gasping creature back into the river. If they heard the rustle of the bush as the Soldier left, they did not acknowledge it.

The Winter Soldier was broken in more ways than one. The arm he clutched protectively to his chest had been fractured at least once by the tall, blond-haired man who insisted they were something other than hunter and prey. In the hours since he'd dragged the unconscious man from the river, he'd thought about that encounter over and over again. Why had the man said those things? That wasn't how The Mission was supposed to behave. The Mission was supposed to fight, or flee, or curse, or scream, or beg. The Mission was supposed to react with fear before being terminated. It wasn't supposed to talk to you as if… as if you were a friend.

But the things that man had said, they tickled at his mind and evoked feelings and images, pangs and flashes in equal measure. Dozens of missions carried out for his superiors, and never once had he hesitated. Never once had he doubted his orders. Never once had he let his prey escape death.

Until now.

Lost in deep thought, he stopped when he heard the sound of a motor approaching on the river. From his vantage point amongst the trees he was hard to see, but 'hard to see' was not the same as 'impossible to see'. There was no need to take chances. With a quick and silent step, he crouched behind another small bush and peered over it. The boat was not a police craft, just a small private speedboat which soon disappeared around the bend in the river. The Soldier waited until it had passed, then resumed his journey.

He followed the river because it was something to follow. It gave him a sense of mission, a sense of order he craved. Until now he'd followed his leaders. He'd followed orders. But his leaders had not come to find him. His orders lay in tatters because for the first time in his life, he'd found the strength to disobey. But the river… the river was something permanent. Something he could follow. Something that would not let him down. The river had always been there, and it always would be.

At first, after pulling the blond man from the river, he had been torn. Torn between wanting to stay and wanting to go. But he had too many questions. Too much was uncertain, unknown. Plus, he had just killed a lot of people. Society frowned on killing. He would have been captured. Incarcerated. Interrogated. The thought of being caged was unappealing. So he left.

The nearby city of Washington D.C. came first to his mind. It was a big city, inhabited by millions of people. It was easy to get lost in a crowd, and the Winter Soldier was very _good_ at staying hidden. But big cities meant lots of security. Police were numerous; CCTV, ubiquitous. Satellites could more easily pinpoint a target in a city than in the countryside. Instead of going to the city, he followed the river in the opposite direction, and soon found himself miles from D.C. and its noise.

Luck was both for and against the Soldier. It was summer, so the dense canopy of foliage along the river bank gave him an effective screen from aerial observation. Had it been winter, the helicopters and satellites which made frequent visual scans might have spotted him even as he hid amongst the bushes. But summer brought with it an extra hazard; tourists. Though he didn't know it, he was walking part of the Potomac Heritage Trail, and the fine weather had brought out hikers and cyclists, dog-walkers and families. Each time he heard someone approach, he knew he had only seconds to make a decision. The cyclists were most easily avoided; they tended to concentrate on the trail, and were soon beyond sight. The rest were a greater annoyance, especially those with dogs. More often than not, he evaded them by slipping back into the river and hugging the overhanging bank until the chance of discovery had passed. His actions took him across the invisible state line between Virginia and Maryland a dozen times over the course of the day, each dunking in the river making him wince in pain as the cold bit into his aching, burning arm.

Towards late afternoon, he passed beneath the shadow of an ominous-looking collection of buildings. Had he known it was a CIA intelligence outpost, he might have crossed to the other side of the river, but the sprawling mass of Bethesda's outer suburbs made him hesitant to walk the opposite bank. Here he had another stroke of good-fortune; the gaze of all CIA personnel, along with other law enforcement agencies, was firmly fixed on Washington, and the catastrophic mess the Soldier had left in his wake. Nobody thought to look for a fugitive within the shadow of an intelligence organisation much like the one he'd had a hand in bringing down. He passed by the facility without incident.

As night crept in, the Winter Soldier stopped and sank to his knees. His breath came fast and hard, and his body shivered despite his attempts to will it to stillness. _Not only am I broken, I am also weak,_ he thought. _Look at me, craving warmth like some mewling infant! I, who have tracked prey across frozen wastelands and barren deserts, who have hunted in some of the most hostile environments on this planet, will not be defeated on the banks of this_ _… this…_ he couldn't think of the appropriate slur in English, so he thought it in Russian. As he pushed himself to his feet, he never stopped to wonder why he was thinking his thoughts in two different languages.

The need for food and drink forced him inland, and he set off on shaky legs. Though he had been injured many times before, he had never received such a beating as the one given to him by the man whose life he had spared.

 _Maybe that_ _'s why I spared him. Perhaps it was professional respect. I had finally met my match. Isn't it the desire of all hunters to find a prey who will challenge them? Yes, that must be it. But then, why did he throw down his weapons and armour? Why did he not fight back when I was beating him? Why did he call me 'Bucky'?_

The thoughts sent uncomfortable feelings that he could neither express nor define worming their way through his stomach. _Hungry. I_ _'m just hungry. That's all._

Hunger drove him on. Though he recalled being fed well during his intense training sessions, he tended not to eat directly before or during a mission; it slowed him down. Sometimes, hunger gave him an edge, sharpened his senses and made him more efficient. Now, though, hunger gnawed at him. It had been several days since his last meal, and over twenty-four hours since he'd had anything to drink—half the river he had swallowed notwithstanding, of course. Now, it was time to find sustenance. Once his basic needs had been satisfied, he could decide what to do next.

o - o - o - o - o

Though hunger, thirst, pain, mental fatigue and the beginnings of hypothermia had weakened the Soldier's body and mind, his survival instincts remained strong. The small town of Great Falls, Fairfax County, lay before him, bathed in warm streetlight which gave it a welcoming ambiance. But he did not enter it fully. Not yet. Instead he waited and watched, scoping out his surroundings, looking for the high ground, for the escape routes, for the best places to hide should the need arise. Though weaponless, he was not defenceless, and defence was at the forefront of his mind. His considerable training had drilled into him the need to always be aware of his surroundings, to take advantage of the local terrain.

Finally satisfied, he left his vantage point and crept into the town, moving from building to building, an extension of the shadows themselves. Equally at home in the urban setting as he was in the rural, his head swivelled constantly as he took in landmarks and signs. At the corner of a street he looked out and saw a bank, the neon hue of its external ATM calling enticingly to him. He took a step forward, then saw the CCTV camera directly above it and quickly retreated to his shadow. Dome camera. Limited range, he knew. It would see only the person stood before it, and a couple of feet to either side. It was a risk, but he needed money. One could not get very far in the land of the free without the paper bills that turned its great wheels. The risk was acceptable.

The jungle gym of a nearby park caught his eye, and he ghosted towards it, vaulting almost silently over the chain fence on his cybernetic arm. He cast around the ground and quickly found a suitable stone. Grabbing hold of the fence once more, he prepared to vault back over it.

A high-pitched laugh made him freeze where he stood, every muscle of his body taut. A young man and woman strolled down the street, arm in arm, and the Soldier could only watch in rapt fascination and growing horror as they walked within mere feet of where he waited to be discovered. At the last moment, he decided to lower his profile, and fell into a squat that sent a bolt of pain through his broken arm and very nearly made him cry out.

Love, or at least the ardour of passion, saved him. The couple, so besotted with each other that they only had eyes for their partner, walked on by without a single glance in the Soldier's direction, their conversation about whatever movie they'd just seen not even faltering for an instant. The Soldier's gaze tracked them as they strolled, his attention captivated by the way the girl's skirt swayed around her legs. It reminded him of something… some other time and place. And within an instant, he was there.

 _Flash._

 _Heart pounding a rapid staccato in his chest, he slowed his steps as the band on the stage finished belting out Glenn Miller_ _'s 'In The Mood.' He took a deep, ragged breath and looked down at the girl holding his hands. She gave him a smile which brought out the sparkle in her eyes._

" _Y'wanna get a drink?" he drawled._

" _Sure, I could use something to drink, all this dancing is hard work."_

 _She took his arm as he led her through the blueish-white haze of the smoke-filled dance hall to the bar, and ordered a couple of root beers. He reached inside his jacket pocket for his wallet and handed a dollar bill to the barman._

" _Just got back, or just heading out?" the man asked, aiming a questioning nod at the Soldier's uniform._

" _I'm shipping out tomorrow."_

" _Then this one's on the house, buddy. Good luck out there, and if you get chance, give Jerry a good ol' sock on the jaw for me, won't you?"_

 _The Soldier grinned as he put the bill back in his wallet. There were perks to the uniform; that_ _'s why he'd worn it tonight. "Thanks, pal."_

" _It's a shame Steve couldn't make it," the girl said as she accepted the drink he gave her._

" _Yeah, but he wouldn't have had any fun. He doesn't dance."_

" _Why not?"_

 _The Soldier shrugged._ _"He's shy." He glanced across the room to where a pretty blonde was dancing with a tall man wearing a fine suit. "At least your friend's managed to find someone to dance with."_

 _It was her turn to grin._ _"She always does." When the band started playing a new tune, her eyes widened and she put her drink down on the bar to take him by the hand. "Come on, I love this one!"_

 _With a smile, he let himself be pulled forward, into the dancing throng._

 _Flash._

Reality slammed back into his consciousness and he tried to slow his rapid breathing, head swivelling from side to side as he looked for the crowd, ears straining for the blaring sound of a half-dozen trumpets and trombones, the subtle rhythms of a clarinet trio, the energetic beat of the drums. But there was nothing except the still night air of the sleepy town.

 _What the_ _…?!_

That place, the place from his vision… he'd been there before. Knew it. Could still smell the smoke that hung in the air, taste the root beer on the tip of his tongue… But how? And when? Wherever it was, whenever it was, it was far from here. That much, he knew. Women did not dress like that anymore. Music did not sound like that anymore. And there wasn't anywhere you could buy two drinks for less than a dollar.

A crunching sound drew his attention down, and he found himself looking at a stone being crushed by the grip of his cybernetic arm. A violent shiver stole over him as he looked at it. In the vision… if that's what it truly was… he hadn't had the arm. He'd had a real arm, just like the broken one, except not broken. He'd had a hand of flesh which could feel all that it touched. Back when he'd been whole. Unbroken. Back when he'd danced with girls and bought them a root beer and listened to something better than the caterwauling they called music these days.

He shook his head.

 _No. I am the Winter Soldier. I work to bring about a better world. A safer world. Through my missions, I improve humanity. I don_ _'t listen to music. I don't drink root beer. I don't dance with girls. And… and… I must remember the mission. I have failed, but there will be new orders for me. New orders to make a new order. I will get strong again. Strong enough to travel. And I will find my way back. Or they will find me and bring me home. Then I can sleep again._

Quickly checking to ensure the street was clear, the Soldier vaulted over the chain fence and made his way back to the street corner. Pulling back his arm, he took careful aim and threw the rock. It hit the dome dead centre, shattering it loudly. For a count of sixty, the Soldier waited. When the broken camera summoned no additional security, he trotted across the road and smashed the front panel of the ATM, ripping the face from the wall. Though he knew how to bypass various security systems, he didn't have time right now for subtlety. His cybernetic arm was the only tool he needed, and it didn't take him long to get into the machine's cash safe.

A few hundred dollars later found him several streets away. Though his shivering had stopped, for now, his hunger and thirst had only increased. Money was no good if he couldn't find a disguise to enable him to use it. Several houses lined the street he was on, and he soon found one that wasn't alarmed. There was a car on the driveway, but all the lights inside the house were off. If anyone was home, they were probably sleeping. He quickly calculated the risk and again deemed it acceptable.

The house was no challenge, a ground floor window unlocked. He ghosted through silently, ears strained for signs that his entry had been detected. There were none, so he continued up the stairs, opening doors an inch at a time to peer cautiously around them. The master bedroom held two sleeping forms, one of them snoring gently. The next room was a bathroom, which he briefly made use of. The next room contained a smaller bed, with a girl in her early teens asleep within it. The fourth room had a bed too, but it was empty and unmade. Several posters of rock bands adorned the walls, but a few lighter, empty spaces showed where posters and banners had been taken down, probably quite recently. This was a good sign.

He raided what was left of the wardrobe, stuffing shirts and a pair of jeans into a rucksack he found beneath the bed. A few pairs of socks in a chest of drawers were threadbare, but they went into the rucksack too, along with what he hoped was clean underwear. To top it off, he grabbed a baseball cap sitting on the bedside table, and added it to the bag before donning a plain brown jacket that was only a little too small for him. Satisfied, he went down to the kitchen, ate and drank as much as his stomach would allow, grabbed a couple of boxes of cookies for the road, and left via the same window he'd entered. The whole thing had taken less than ten minutes.

With the need for food and water now a much less pressing demand, he turned his attention to his broken arm. His skin looked red and angry, his muscles felt swollen and hot. Though he was no medic, he knew that breaks which weren't clean could cause complications internally; damaged blood vessels, trapped nerves, torn tendons or ligaments… this was something beyond his ability to deal with. He needed help. He needed a doctor.

A few minutes later he came to a small building which announced its opening hours as 9am - 4.30pm on a sign in the window. A small smile tugged at one corner of the Soldier's lips. This would do nicely.

o - o - o - o - o

It was a cold, unpleasant night spent in the alley behind the small building. Though the Soldier could go for several days without sleep if necessary, it had already _been_ several days since he'd last slept. The need for sleep was compounded by the pain in his arm and the tiredness of his mind. But each time he closed his eyes, he smelt cigarette smoke, tasted root beer and heard the jaunty sound of big-band music. He was visited, too, by mental apparitions, faces of people who struck familiar chords inside his chest, along with the faces of people he had… terminated during his missions. By the time the sun had started to rise, the Winter Soldier was more exhausted and miserable than he had ever been before in his life.

When traffic began to pick up on the road, he pressed himself further back into the alley. The town woke up and went about its daily business unaware of the stranger lurking in the shadows. He watched and listened as parents took their children to school, as shop owners opened up and greeted each other, as the newspaper boy rang his bicycle bell to warn pedestrians of his approach. It all seemed so very, very different to the life he had lived. And yet, at the same time, there was something very familiar about it, too. A dichotomy he could not reconcile, he tried to put it out of his mind.

One thing he had learnt, over the past few hours of waking nightmare, was that the more you tried to put something out of your mind, the more loudly it clamoured for attention. The root beer and music were bad enough, but the loudest was the tall, blond man who had broken his arm then let himself be beaten in turn. The man's words resounded around the Soldier's head, an infinite echo that could not be stopped.

 _You know me_ _… You're my friend… I won't fight you… Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…_

"No," he whispered to the echo. "I don't know you. And if I see you again, I _will_ complete my mission. Now leave me alone!"

As if on cue, lights flickered to life within the building he was hiding beside and radio music sang out from a window that was opened by a couple of inches. Whilst the too-chirpy radio DJ gave a traffic report, the Soldier inched his way upwards, to peer over the sill. The room he looked into was a reception, neat and tidy with just a couple of magazines on the coffee table in the centre of the room. The receptionist hummed to herself as she cleaned out and refilled the coffee machine, completely oblivious to the man watching her at the window.

It was time. The Winter Soldier moved around to the back of the building and found another window, this one opening up to a small examination room. The lock on the window gave him no trouble, and he slipped into the room and took up a position behind the door. There, he waited. Waiting was something he was good at. Sometimes it took a lot of patience to catch his prey and complete a mission. Hasty action could lead to missed opportunity. Sometimes you had to hunt your prey, and sometimes you had to wait for your prey to come to you. This was one of those times.

At nine o'clock exactly, a man walked into the room and went straight for the white coat hanging on the far wall. He didn't hear the Soldier step up behind him, and only after he'd donned the coat and turned did he startle in surprise. To his credit, he did not cry out. Perhaps he sensed it was too dangerous to do so. A smart man.

"Who—who are you?" the man asked. He lifted a hand to nervously push a pair of spectacles further up his nose. When his eyes fell on the Soldier's cybernetic arm, they widened, causing the glasses to slip again.

"I'm the man you're going to help," the Soldier said. He indicated the arm held against his chest. "My arm is broken. You're going to fix it."

"If your arm is broken, you need to go to the hospital."

"I can't. No insurance."

"I can't help you. You need a doctor."

"You're a doctor."

"I'm a veterinarian!"

"Close enough. Humans are animals too, right? And I'm betting you're just as qualified as any doctor out there. Maybe more so." He took a step forward. The veterinarian stepped back. "I know you want to help me. You work with animals. People who work with animals are generally good people. I also get the feeling you value your health."

"Are you threatening me?!" the man squeaked.

"Yes." The Soldier dropped his pilfered backpack onto the floor and fixed his eyes on the vet's face. "Here are the terms. You fix my arm, and I'll leave. You forget you ever saw me, and I'll never need to come back. Try to call the police, and I'll kill you here and now. Speak of me to anyone, ever, and I'll come back and make the rest of your life worse than death. I don't want to be here, and I don't want to hurt you, but if you leave me no choice, I will. Comply, and you will never see my face again. Do you understand?"

The man swallowed and nodded.

"Good. Now, call your receptionist to the door but don't let her in. Tell her you're not feeling well. Cancel all of your appointments for today. Get your cup of coffee from her, then send her away. If you tell her I am here, or try to alert her in any way, I will hurt her. And that will be on you. Understand?"

Another nod.

The Soldier stepped aside as the man walked in a dream-like trance to the door and called the secretary over. She expressed surprise over the cancellation of appointments, concern over his health. A dutiful employee. It would have been a shame to hurt her.

"Take the day off," the vet said. "But would you mind doing the medication rounds for me?"

"Me?!" The Soldier could hear the surprise in her voice. "But—"

"Yes, yes, you'll be fine," the vet assured her. "They're all repeat prescriptions, the owners know how much to give. Everything's been paid for, just drop them all off and then take the rest of the day for yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Err, okay."

"Coffee," the Soldier hissed.

"Oh, and, um, could you bring me a cup of coffee before you go?"

"Of course, I'll have it for you in just a jiffy."

When the coffee finally materialised, the vet accepted it and shut the door with great reluctance. He turned to the Soldier, and held out the cup. "You, um, wanted this?"

"That's not for me, it's for you," he told the vet's pale, clammy face. "You look terrible. Drink, then we'll get started."

"Um, okay." The man sipped the coffee and grimaced. Either it tasted bad or was too hot. "Whilst I'm, um, drinking, why don't you take off your shirt? I'll need to do an x-ray to know where the break is, before I can, um, attempt to set it," he hurried to explain when the Soldier glared at him.

Never before had it taken so long to take off a shirt, but he had a broken arm to work around; an arm that was now so painful that even the slightest touch caused his body to tremor in agony. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead before he was through taking off the shirt, and a wave of dizziness was trying its best to fell him. He fought against it, and won.

"That's, um, an impressive arm," said the vet, eyeing up the cybernetic limb and the scar-tissue surrounding it. "How did that happen?"

"I was a soldier. There was an accident."

"Oh? Where were you stationed?"

"Do you know what the word 'classified' means?"

"Um, yes?"

"Then don't ask any more pointless questions." He propped himself against he edge of the bed. "Are you ready to begin?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Let's get started right away."

The vet was hasty but professional. The x-ray was over with quickly, showing two different fractures on his right radius bone, along with what the vet suspected were tears within both collateral ligaments.

"I'll need to administer pain relief and antibiotics before I try to set it, and then I'll have to put it in a cast to—"

"No cast," the Soldier told him. "Set it and sling it."

"But without a cast—"

"No cast."

The vet threw his hands into the air. "Fine. But you'll only make it worse. The arm needs to stay still, even the slightest movement could cause it to set incorrectly. Don't blame me if it's no better in three months."

"I won't." Three months? Was that how long it took for broken arms to heal? It seemed a very long time. Injuries he had received in the past mended much faster than that. Bruising faded within hours; cuts and burns within days. He suspected it would not take months for his arm to mend.

"Very well. Wait here for a moment, I'll go and get the medications I need."

The Soldier stared at the x-rays on the light box as the vet rattled around in the drugs cabinet. He'd never seen the inside of himself before; never needed to. How easily his arm had snapped! If the human body was so fragile, why hadn't his commanders given him two cybernetic arms? Why hadn't they outfitted him with cybernetic legs, too? If they could give him one arm, why only one? Why not a whole body? Why not just make people out of cybernetic parts to begin with? Parts were fixed faster than bones. Parts did not bleed. They did not doubt. They did not hurt, inside or out.

"Here we go." The vet returned with two hypodermic syringes. "Something to help with the pain, and something to help fight off infection."

The Soldier eyed the long, wicked silver needles, and felt an unpleasantness inside. It might have been fear. He'd never felt fear before, but he thought that if he could, this might be what it felt like.

"No drugs," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No drugs."

"Look, I can see you're in pain, and that will make it much harder for me to set the arm. I need it relaxed."

"It will be relaxed. I will make it relaxed. But no drugs."

"But—"

"NO!" The Soldier lifted his cybernetic hand and, without moving his gaze from the doctor's face, smashed it into the light box, shattering it. The light fizzled out, bringing a surge of anger to the Soldier's mind. "Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what you use to euthanise animals? Do you think I'm just going to trust that you aren't injecting me with a lethal dose?"

"I—I would never—"

"I don't care!" he snarled. "No injections. I'll take whatever pills you've got for when the pain gets bad. But if you come any closer to me with those needles, I'll stick them in _you_."

The vet swallowed and hastily put the syringes aside. The Soldier relaxed. Just a little. Though his body had proven resistant to many sedatives in the past—much to the irritation of his handlers—he was willing to take no chances. He was weak. He knew it. He could sense the weakness within him, even though he was no longer hungry or thirsty. He was still exhausted, still in pain, with chills and hot flushes coming in alternate bouts. Weakened, he might succumb to a sedative. He could not afford that. Better to be in pain than at the mercy of another.

"I—If you lie down, I'll try to set your arm now," the vet offered.

The surgical bed was too short for a human, his legs dangled off the end of it, but the Soldier complied, an ill feeling in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps this was a mistake. This man was nothing like those who had tended to his physical wellbeing before. Always, in the past, he'd had confidence in his doctors' abilities, even when he hadn't liked what they were doing. Though the things they did to him often caused him pain, they did them with confidence, to make him better. Stronger. This veterinarian had no confidence. He was a bundle of nerves. A confidently issued command would have made the Soldier feel more relaxed right then. That was all he truly wanted; to be commanded once more. To have uncertainty removed.

"Without the painkillers, this will hurt. A lot," the vet warned him. "I should tell you, I've never performed a closed reduction on a human before. Not even one under general anaesthetic, much less one fully conscious and without any sedation or pain relief. I strongly recommend we abandon this and you go to a hospital. I'll drive you there and pay for your treatment myself, if necessary."

"No hospitals," the Soldier instructed. "Perform the procedure."

The seconds of agony caused by the vet pushing the mis-aligned bones into place stretched out into what felt like an eternity. The soldier couldn't help the pained cry that escaped his lips; he'd learnt long ago that suppressing a howl of pain didn't lessen the pain one bit, so instead he'd tried to accept it. This was a very different pain to the one he usually felt, and it left his skin damp, his body shivering, the hand of his cybernetic arm opening and closing in unconscious spasm. His vision blurred, dizziness struck, and if he hadn't been lying down, he probably would have passed out.

Then it was over. The pain was still there, but it was a numb sort of pain. It was manageable. The veterinarian propped a cushion behind the Soldier's back, bringing him closer to a sitting position.

"I'll need to take another x-ray. I need to know that the bones are aligned now. If not, we'll have to do it again."

The Soldier merely nodded, and allowed the vet to take the x-ray. Whilst he waited for the image to fully develop, he closed his eyes and slipped away to another place.

 _Flash._

" _How does it feel?" asked a reedy, accented voice._

 _The Soldier raised his metal arm and held it out in front of him. Once, twice, three times he flexed his hand, opening and closing to a fist. A single word escaped his lips._

" _Fine." Then, another thought. "When can I go home?"_

 _A face appeared in view, a pudgy, squashed-up face adorned with wide, circular spectacles. The face subjected him to a rather sympathetic expression._

" _Don't you remember? You_ are _home. The accident_ _… I'm afraid it has affected your mind. You are lucky that you weren't more severely brain-damaged."_

 _The Soldier looked around at the room. It was dark, the shadows deep and black like ink on a dirty page. This place was cold, and it smelt of damp. This was not his home, and he said as much to the face._

" _So confused! Poor boy. Don't worry. There are gaps in your memory, caused by the accident. We will fill them."_

" _With what?"_

" _Knowledge! The most important thing in the world. More important than strength. More important than power. For what is strength and power without the knowledge of how and when to use it?"_

" _But… I don't belong here." A thought came to his mind, blossoming like the trumpet of a daffodil opening to the warm embrace of the sun. A thought so deeply ingrained that it came out without conscious thought. "My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Rank, Sergeant, assigned to the 107th. My mom's name is—"_

" _Ach, nein, nein!" The squat little man threw his hands into the air before turning to face a man in a long white coat. "How long did that last?"_

" _Eine tag."_

" _Improvement, at least. Six hours longer than the last time."_

 _The Soldier watched, afraid, confused, as the face came closer._ _"You are the Winter Soldier. You are an elite Hydra operative. Early on in the Second World War, you were sent deep undercover, to infiltrate the American infantry. For two years," a pair of fingers came up to emphasise the point, "you were successful in your mission. When we finally brought you home, the Americans were so convinced you were one of them, that they 'rescued' you, taking you from us before we could deprogram you fully. Since then we have recovered you and tried to restore your memories… unfortunately, our initial programming seems to have been a little too effective. You have so fully assumed the identity which we programmed into your mind, that you truly believe you are an American soldier. If you remember only one piece of information from this iteration, remember this."_

 _Flash._

The Soldier opened his eyes and found himself looking at yet another white coat. The vet cleared his throat, then held up the x-ray. With a shaky hand, he pointed out the fractures which had now be realigned. "It, um, seems to have worked. I still think we need to put a cast on—"

"No cast."

"Okay. Then, if you'll sit up, I'll put your arm in a sling. You need to keep it immobile for as long as possible. The arm will be weak for quite some time; if you use it, the bones will break again."

"I won't use it." _Unless I have to._

The sling was awkward, and the Soldier had to settle for draping the jacket he'd pilfered over the shoulder of his broken arm. He turned to look at the vet, and heard a voice inside his mind issue an order. _Cover your tracks. Leave no evidence of your presence._

"I'd like to give myself an injection of a painkiller," he said, turning for the medicine cabinet. "Which one is it?" The vet told him, and the Soldier reached for another bottle. "What does this one do?"

"It's a mild antibiotic."

"And this one?"

"An anabolic steroid. Not something you need, I think."

"What about this?" he asked, holding up another bottle.

"A strong sedative."

"How much of this would I need to make me sleep for a couple of hours?"

"I… I couldn't say."

"Approximate."

"Probably about half of a syringe."

The Soldier filled the syringe a quarter of the way full, then turned towards the vet. The man's eyes widened in understanding, and he made a dash for the door. But the Soldier's reflexes were too sharp; he caught the animal doctor by the collar and swept one of his legs from beneath him, lowering him to the floor. There, he stuck the needle into the man's arm, injected the fluid, then hauled him up onto the bed.

"Why?" the man demanded, his glasses skewed on his face, his short brown hair dishevelled in the scuffle. "I helped you."

"I know. And by way of thanks, I've given you your life." The Soldier put the syringe aside and picked up his backpack. "You'll sleep for a couple of hours, if your approximation was correct, and if you didn't lie about the contents of that bottle. By then I'll be long gone, and nothing but a dream to your mind. Forget that dream. Forget it, and speak of it to no-one."

The vet's eyes flickered closed and, in a rare moment of compassion, the Soldier turned him onto his stomach, so that he would not swallow his tongue, or vomit upon waking. That was something he had learned long ago. _Turn an unconscious man face-down, if it won_ _'t injure him to do so._

Why his commanders had given him that information when he only ever worked alone, he did not know, but he did not dwell on it either. He left by the window and closed it behind him. The good thing about a cybernetic arm was that it left no fingerprints. Just one less piece of evidence to wipe away.


	2. Dogs of War

Running To You

 _2\. Dogs Of War_

He had no name.

It confused him that others had names, yet he had only titles. _The Asset. The Winter Soldier. Soldat._ Variations on a theme culminating in a lack of personal moniker. Why?

 _The man who broke my arm_ _… he said he knew me. But how can he know me, if I don't even know myself? Who am I? What am I?_

It had been two days since Great Falls, and he still followed the river, but at a much slower pace. It wasn't the oft-rocky landscape which slowed his journey, but uncertainty. Several times he'd cut inland to exploit nearby houses, and three times he'd found a public phone booth and used it to call a number so ingrained into his mind that it came autonomously to his mechanical fingers. A number of last-resort, to be used in case of the direst of emergencies only. He dialled the number, and it rang. It rang and it rang, and nobody answered. He returned to the river.

 _I am alone._

The thought was almost overwhelming, but he had to face facts. His mission had gone terribly wrong. His prey was still alive. From the shores of the Potomac he'd watched the Triskelion crumble like a house of cards and seen the remains of the Insight helicarriers plunge burning into the water. S.H.I.E.L.D. was gone. Hydra was scattered. The men who were supposed to man the emergency phone, no longer manned it. There were alternative contingencies, but they would require him to get to Europe, and that was not an option right now.

An unpleasant sensation began tingling inside his chest. He'd never been alone before. Not truly alone. Even on his solo-missions, he knew he had oversight. He knew he would have to give reports, have his actions weighed up. There had always been someone to turn to, for a new order. Never before had be been so thoroughly cut off from the chain of command. What would he do if he couldn't re-establish contact? Where would he go? What orders would he follow?

A whine and a yelp brought his focus back to his surroundings, and he scanned the area for the source of the sound. A dog had tried to cross the river, from the far bank to his, and run into an eddy half-way. Unable to go forward it had tried to turn back, but found itself unable to break out of the eddy. Now it swam in circles, whining and growing weaker as the river sapped its strength.

 _Stupid dog,_ he thought. _Should have stayed where you were._

The whine came again, and the Soldier closed his eyes. _Shouldn_ _'t fight it. You'll only die slower. Just let it take you._

But the dog fought on, yelping once more, a plaintive cry for help that made the Soldier feel sick inside. Before he could talk himself out of it, he'd kicked off his boots and socks, removed his backpack and jacket, and waded out into the cold water once more. As it grew deeper he felt the swift current tug at him, but kicked out with his legs and used his strong cybernetic arm to progress forwards whilst remaining along the same line as the dog.

"Hang on, boy, I'm coming," he called, seeing the dark head bob down briefly.

The dog heard him and immediately cut a path towards him. When the Soldier reached the dog, it tried to clamber onto his shoulders. Gritting his teeth, the Soldier grabbed the animal—which was larger than he'd thought from the bank—by the scruff of the neck and dragged it back to the shore. Getting back was more difficult without his free arm, and he wasn't entirely sure his sling hadn't been washed off by the current. By the time his feet found land, his legs were aching with effort and he felt fifty pounds heavier.

Pushing damp locks of hair from his face, the Soldier sank to the ground and issued himself a swift mental kick. _Fool. Unnecessary risk_. In his mind, he could see the scorn on his handlers' faces when he reported on his activities. _Acquired money. Sought medical attention. Travelled covertly in disguise. Attempted to re-establish contact with base. Saved a dog from drowning._ Perhaps discretion should be exercised. The dog was not part of his mission. He did not have to mention it in the report.

As the Soldier began pulling on his socks and boots, the dog scrambled up the bank and shook its fur, wetting him further. It was a tall dog, a mongrel-looking thing that probably had a bit of wolfhound in its ancestry. The scraggly dark fur was tinged with grey around the muzzle, and scratty ears drooped on either side of its head. The dog looked at him with its deep brown eyes, then let its tongue loll out from its mouth in an exhausted pant.

"You're lucky; I seem to have a weakness for pulling American dogs from the river," he told the animal. "Well, you're safe now. I hope you live on this side, because I sure as hell won't be taking you back across. Go home, boy."

The dog looked at him and wagged its tail.

"Don't look at me, I don't know where you live. I don't even know where _I_ live. I mean, I think I live in Siberia, but there's always been this little part of me that never really felt like I belonged there. Know what I mean?"

 _Wag._

"Are you thirsty? You look how I feel; tired and worn. Here, have a drink."

He pulled from his rucksack a bottle of water he'd pilfered from a gas station, and let it pour slowly from the spout. The dog lapped at it eagerly, and it wasn't until it had finished drinking that the Soldier recalled he had more pressing concerns than one dog's thirst. He put the bottle away and checked his broken arm; it seemed to be healing well. Had stopped hurting so much, wasn't all red and swollen anymore. The sling was still on, though had come loose in the river, so he re-tightened it has best he could and draped the brown jacket across his shoulders.

"Well." He stood up and looked down at the dog. "Do svidaniya."

He resumed his journey, but before too long heard the sure-tell signs that he was being followed. When he stopped and turned, the dog stopped too, looking at him as if to say, _I_ _'m going with you._

"Go home!" the Soldier scowled. "Go away. I don't want you. I have enough trouble as it is without having to worry about some mangy mutt. You've probably got fleas."

He hadn't gone a dozen steps before he heard the animal follow again. This time when he stopped, he crouched down and the dog came to him with a whine, pressing his smelly dog fur against the Soldier's face.

"Fine. As long as you don't get in my way, you can come with me to the next town. But once we get there, I'm ditching you. There's probably someone who'll take you in. _Somebody_ out there has to want you. Right?" There was no response from the dog, but he hadn't exactly expected one. It was, after all, a dog. "What should I call you?" he asked, using his metal hand to scratch behind the scraggly canine ears. "Maybe you're like me. Maybe you don't have a name. Maybe you only have a title. You might be 'Sobaka', huh?" If dogs could look unimpressed, then this one looked unimpressed. "Fine. Then I'll just call you Bingo. How about that?" The name elicited a wag of the tail, so the Soldier rolled with it.

He gave Bingo a couple of cookies, and this time when he set off, the dog followed at his heel as if it had always belonged there.

o - o - o - o - o

Safely hidden within the wooded fields on the outskirts of Leesburg, the Soldier waited for morning. Though he could steal as much as he needed, stealing would only get him so far. He was craving something more nutritious than cookies, and Bingo needed some real food, too. But more than that, he needed information. Though by now he was some forty miles from Washington D.C., he needed to know how far the hunt for him extended. Gone were the times of Wanted posters plastered onto telegraph poles; now, things like that were put on the internet.

"The wonders of technology," he said to Bingo. The dog wagged its tail in response. "I'll pick up a newspaper, some food, maybe a cup of coffee. Maybe we'll find a butchers in Leesburg, get you a nice crunchy bone. Maybe we can even find someone to take you off my hands."

Bingo whined.

"Oh, don't give me that," the Soldier scoffed. "You'd hate my life. Living from one mission to the next, going to sleep inside a metal box… sometimes I feel like I'm in that thing for years. I know that can't be true, but it seemed like each time I came out, the doctors around me had aged more than they ought to have. Come to think about it, the doctors I have now aren't the same as the doctors I had in the beginning. I wonder what happened to them. Maybe they got transferred?"

He fought down the niggling feeling that Hydra didn't just transfer people for no good reason.

Leesburg was a quiet, spacious, unremarkable town full of winding streets around a central nucleus of shops and facilities laid out in a grid of roads and narrow sidewalks. The Soldier's hopes for a greasy-spoon diner where he would not stand out died quickly. He found a café instead, and took Bingo around its corner.

"You need to stay here, boy. I won't be long, but they probably won't allow dogs inside. I know, fascists, right? But I'll bring you something nice to eat. Sausages and bacon, maybe. None of that continental breakfast stuff. Sit, boy. And stay."

He was pleased when the dog did sit, then silently berated himself. What was is to him, if a dog obeyed his command? He'd be getting rid of the damn thing soon anyway, and good riddance. A dog was a drain on resources.

The inside of the café was nice and neat, with a few customers already seated. The Soldier took a table and was glad he'd had the foresight to steal a pair of gloves, one of which now covered his metal hand. It wasn't a perfect fit, but it was good enough in a pinch.

As he waited to be served, he studied the room from beneath the rim of his purloined baseball cap and figured out who he'd need to kill first if his identity was made. The two men in the corner had their necks snapped easily. But when the Soldier saw a tall man eating breakfast at a table by himself, he re-assigned his targets. The lone man was large, his muscles of his forearms thick and solid. The man probably worked out. The greater threat. He would die first, then the two together.

The old couple at the table closest to the door would be the last; the old, the young and the infirm were always a lower priority than the healthy and athletic. Before them he would have to deal with the two waitresses. One of them carried a steaming hot pot of coffee. Potential weapon. Take her out first, then the one behind the counter. Kill the old couple, then deal with however many cooks were in the kitchen. Get the drop on them, then head out the back door. A minute. Maybe two.

He killed as easily as he breathed. He felt no remorse because his superiors had explained countless times that his missions were vital to the future of the human race. Threats needed to be eliminated. Deviants needed to be handled. Everything died, eventually. He just hastened that end, and in doing so helped to protect humanity from itself.

But even something as simple as killing was not black and white. In the Soldier's world, only four types of people existed: those who gave him his mission; those he had to kill for the mission; those who got in the way of his mission; and everybody else. The first were his superiors, whom he obeyed without question. The second type were footnotes in history. The third he was allowed to deal with as he saw fit. If somebody got in the way of his mission, he should try to disable them, but kill them if the success of the mission was at stake. The last kind were the majority. They were the background noise of the world. Millions like them lived and died, each small and unremarkable. But they were the ones he should attempt to avoid interacting with. Unless they became a threat, they should be ignored.

He was not a bomb, to be detonated for maximum effect. He was a precision weapon, a hunter so perfect that he could take out a single target and leave everything around him untouched. Bombs lacked his finesse, and collateral damage was to be avoided unless the mission specifically called for it. A hunter needed shadows, and indiscriminate killing was not conducive to creating shadows.

"What can I get you?" asked the waitress as she stepped up to his table, pulling him out of the mental carnage.

"Coffee, black," he said. "A full English breakfast, if you do that. And I don't suppose you have a newspaper I could take a look at?"

"I think we've got one, yeah. You want waffles or hash browns with your breakfast?"

"Both. I've got a long day ahead," he explained, when she raised an eyebrow.

"Alright. I'll be right back with your coffee and paper."

The coffee was strong and bitter, just how he liked it. The last time he'd had coffee he'd been on a mission in Germany. He hadn't really wanted the coffee, but his target came every morning to the Starbucks in Cologne on his way to work, so the Soldier had gone there too, to sit in a booth and wait for his victim. What they claimed was coffee tasted more like a foul combination of watery milk and too much sugar. The coffee came not in beans, or even grounds, but in the form of a syrup. How was that coffee?

The promised newspaper appeared with a scene of destruction plastered across the front page. _CLEAN UP CONTINUES IN D.C._ the title said. And the subtitle silently accused him, _BODY COUNT RISES TO 126._

The Soldier felt a now-familiar unease settle in the pit of his stomach. One hundred and twenty six. In the space of an hour he had killed more people than he had in his entire career. This hadn't been a surgical strike; it had been a massacre. But… he'd been under orders. He'd been instructed to take out his targets by any means necessary, and to kill anybody who tried to assist them. Surely, his handlers would not hold him accountable for this.

Would they?

"Here you go," said the waitress, placing a plate of food on the table in front of him. "Enjoy."

"Thanks."

She moved as if to leave, then caught sight of the article and shook her head, her bobbed blonde hair swinging along. "Can't believe they're still finding bodies. I mean, you hear about these things on the news, but it all seems so far away. And then something like this happens, literally just down the road, and it really brings it home to you."

"Have they… have they caught the people responsible?" he asked, keeping his gaze away from her face. No telling how far across the internet his image had been spread.

"I think they talk about that on page three. I'll leave you to your breakfast. Just gimme a shout if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay."

The smell of the cooked breakfast made the Soldier's stomach rumble, but he ignored it and turned to page three. He found himself looking at a blown-up image of the man who, only days earlier, had firmly held his leash. Beneath the image were more words. _Alexander Pierce: Traitor, Terrorist, Terminated._ The article went on to call for a full investigation into how such a dangerous man had managed to lie and deceive his way into power, and why he had been allowed to get away with everything he had for so long. Further down the page, another article listed the names of several high-ranking Hydra operatives who were suspected to have gone into hiding since all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s records had been dumped onto the internet by Captain America's strike team.

 _Smart move,_ he thought. An organisation which existed in the shadows could not operate in the light. Of course, it wouldn't flush out _all_ of the Hydra operatives, only those too slow and weak to make it into hiding. Only those whose raison d'être was to be captured and make the public believe that Hydra's flame had been well and truly extinguished. Scapegoats. Fall-guys. Just another of Hydra's great deceptions.

He scanned the list of names, looking for his own. Then he remembered he didn't _have_ a name. ' _The Winter Soldier_ _'_ did not feature on that list, nor did ' _mysterious assassin_ _'._ So. Either he wasn't known to the writer of the article… or someone had purposely kept details of his existence from being published. Perhaps Hydra had prevented information about him from being put down in writing. Or maybe the American government didn't want to frighten its people with the knowledge that a highly-dangerous killer was on the loose in their country, a cat amongst the pigeons waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Relieved, at least for the moment, that his image wasn't in the newspaper right alongside that of Pierce, he put the article aside and made a start on breakfast. One of the sausages, one of the slices of bacon and all of the hash browns were wrapped up in a napkin which he pocketed smoothly. The rest he ate quickly, torn between wanting to savour each bite and not wanting to linger any longer than necessary.

A thought stopped him with his fork halfway to his mouth, and the piece of waffle speared on the end dropped to his plate. _How would I know if my picture was in the paper?_ Though he had glimpsed his own image reflected in glass from time to time, he had never paid much attention to it. A shadow had no need for a face. He could close his eyes and picture every centimetre of his mechanical arm as clearly as the back of his biological hand, his own face was an indistinct blur in his mind.

 _I need to know what I look like._

His situation had changed. A shadow had no need for a face, but a fugitive did. He needed to know how recognisable he was. How much of a disguise he would require. Changing clothes was only one aspect of changing appearance.

He wolfed down the rest of his breakfast and slurped the last of the bitter coffee. At the till, he paid for his breakfast and asked the waitress, "Can I use your restroom?"

"Sure. Through the door at the back there, and down to the left."

He followed her directions and found the men's room easily enough. After a quick check to ensure the stalls were empty, he pulled the baseball cap from his head and stepped up to the mirror, lifting his eyes to the glass.

The Soldier hadn't really known what to expect of his own reflection. Blueish grey eyes appraised him frankly from beneath a scowling brow. He smoothed the scowl from his face and turned his head. His nose was neither too long nor too short, his lips neither too full nor too thin, his square jaw ended in a chin carrying a hint of a cleft, and his lower face was covered with a shadow of facial hair, beneath which were cheeks which could not be described as either full or hollow. The only thing which stood out about him was his almost shoulder-length brown hair, which was in need of a good brushing.

 _I am average._

The realisation brought him another measure of relief. With no single outstanding feature, he would be much harder to identify. A large nose was more memorable than an average one. Oddly coloured eyes more noticeable than grey. _I suppose I have the perfect face for an assassin. Maybe that_ _'s why I was chosen. Even if people see me, they won't remember me as anything other than an average guy._

 _But_ _… the man from the bridge remembered me. I don't remember him at all, but he remembers me. Unless he was lying. Yes. That must be it. He was lying about knowing me. He was just trying to confuse me. To make me sympathetic to his side._

 _He saved my life._

The Soldier closed his eyes as the thought he had been avoiding for three days bubbled to the surface. In an instant he was there, seeing it again, _living_ it again. The explosion. The angry, creaking groan of the helicarrier as its iron and steel twisted under concussive force. The crushing pain through his back and chest as the falling support column collapsed on top of him. Unable to gain any leverage with his body to free himself, he'd been so certain he would die.

Then, the big man had come. Beaten, bloody, shot, he could have fled to safety. _Should_ have fled to safety. He should not have stayed to free the man who'd been trying so hard to kill him. It was illogical. Incongruous. It had very nearly resulted in the man's death. _It didn_ _'t make any sense!_

The Soldier balled up his cybernetic fist and lashed out at his reflection, at the confused, weak thing staring at him from behind troubled eyes. Millimetres short of smashing the mirror, he stopped, pulling the punch short. No point leaving even more destruction behind him. No point leaving a breadcrumb trail.

 _Seven years_ _' bad luck, anyway._

He turned away from his own face and left the cafe. It was time to get back on the road.

o - o - o - o - o

Bingo appreciated the cooked breakfast as much as the Soldier had. After feeding the dog and purchasing a fresh supply of food and water for the journey, the pair left Leesburg behind and made their way back to the river. They travelled all day at a leisurely pace, and the Soldier felt his guard relax a little. He was travelling with a dog. Dogs had good hearing and a sharp sense of smell. He was certain he would spot Bingo's reaction to somebody approaching long before he spotted that somebody himself.

When the sun began to set, the Soldier found a secluded bluff to hide him from prying eyes for the night. The ham sandwich he'd carried in his pack from Leesburg was warm by the time he sat down to enjoy it, but a warm sandwich was better than nothing. He tossed some of the ham to Bingo, then cracked open a can of something that promised to give him energy. The drink tasted like what would happen if Starbucks ever decided to run a candy factory; he poured the disgusting stuff away and settled for a bottle of peach-flavoured water instead.

"I remember when water tasted like water," he told Bingo. The dog's ears perked up at the sound of his voice. "I don't think you'll like this stuff, boy. It's pretty sweet." But the dog did like it, and drank a quarter of a bottle from a bowl the Soldier had purchased from a convenience store in Leesburg.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do when they come to pick me up?" he asked the dog. "Sooner or later, Hydra will find me and take me back. I doubt they'll let you come with me. They're not big on frivolities." He ran his metal hand over his jaw, then wondered why; it wasn't as if he could feel the stubble adorning it. "I don't think they ever once gave me a shave. Or a haircut. But if they're going to find me, I supposes I better have a mission report ready for them."

Mission reports. Before now, mission reports hadn't really needed more than two words: "mission successful." There was more to report now. Not only his failure, but the death of Pierce. The fiasco on the bridge, too, although he hadn't been the one who'd blown up a bus. Hydra operatives were like children, when you gave them weapons. They fired with little care for accuracy.

Failure. This was his first, as far as he could recall. Though there had been… mis-steps… before, he'd never failed completely. Again, not his fault… but would his handlers see it like that?

He let the scene from the helicarrier play out in his mind, analysing it from different directions, and the more he thought about it, the more he came to realise that it _was_ his fault. All of it. Well, perhaps not the S.H.I.E.L.D. data being dumped onto the internet. But the helicarriers crashing? That was on him. He hadn't tried hard enough.

"I was arrogant," he said. Bingo whined and lay his head on his paws. "Overconfident. In the past, one shot has almost always been enough. I shot my target in the leg, but he didn't go down. I should have shot again right away, taken out his other leg. I shouldn't have waited. My delay gave him time to climb up to the control panel." He took a deep breath and straightened his back. "When Hydra find me, I'll assume full responsibility for the failure of this mission."

Bingo watched him with deep, questioning brown eyes. The Soldier shifted where he sat.

"I know what you're thinking: I hesitated. That's not it. I didn't hesitate. I was just too confident that my first bullet had done the job. You know how it is; you shoot someone, and even if it's not fatal, they don't try to keep doing what they were doing. Sometimes they try to get away. Sometimes they play dead. They don't… they don't carry on with their mission.

"Why did it even matter to him? S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra, it's all just people telling other people what to do. That's how it's been since the dawn of time. Men control other men. They put down laws and rules and say, _you gotta live this way or get the hell out of my country_. And people have different ideas about the best way to live. What makes one more or less right than the other? As long as humanity is safe, what does it matter who's in charge?"

He picked up a pebble and bounced it on his palm. _Plink plink plink_ it went, on his metal hand. Bingo cocked his head at the sound.

"Y'know what the most worrying thing is, boy? It's not the failure. It's not my hesitation. It's not the entire collapse of both S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra. It's the feeling I got inside when I looked at that guy. A feeling that, deep down, I knew he was right. Like I knew him from somewhere. Like I'd been around him before, and not in a shoot-at-him kinda way.

"I thought I knew what I was. _Who_ I was. But what if that was a lie? What if I'm really this other person? If I am, why can't I remember anything? What do you think; am I crazy?" He snorted at his own question. "I'm talking to a dog. Of course I'm crazy. But I suppose as far as company goes, you're alright. Besides, at least I'm not talking to myself. Now that _would_ be crazy."

He settled down, curling himself up beside the dog, which probably didn't smell any better than he did.

"It doesn't matter. When Hydra find me they'll take me back home, wherever that is, and I'll go to sleep again. When I wake up, things will be better. Just like before."

o - o - o - o - o

The Soldier had never paid much attention to nature before. It had always been something that was there, but largely unimportant. Something to be worked around, unless it got in his way. Nature rarely did get in his way; it knew better.

When he awoke by the river bank the next day, he found himself more aware of nature. It wasn't too bad, at first. His wakeup call was the dawn chorus of songbirds. It stirred something within him… a thought that he wished he'd had more of songbirds in his mornings. A hazy recollection of waking to the sound of traffic and men calling out, or to the hum of a laboratory's generator.

By midday, the songbirds had moved on to do their own thing, replaced by small black and brown birds which, whilst charming at first, swiftly wore down the Soldier's nerves. These birds did not sing. They chirped and croaked and warbled and made sounds like fingernails down a chalkboard. They rasped and cried and trilled, the worst culprits being the youngsters who continuously and raucously demanded food from their parents with a sort of screeching, rasping drone.

"Shut up!" the Soldier demanded, stooping to pick up a stone which he hurled with force at the nearby tree. The stone caused the starlings to scatter, but they were ubiquitous along the river bank and incessant with their noise.

The starlings fell silent as a battle was fought overhead; the Soldier looked up and saw a large, long-necked bird, a heron or a stork, being harassed in mid-air by two screaming crows. The larger bird hung in the air like a malevolent raptor, and the Soldier had another flash in his mind, this time the white-bleached skeleton of some prehistoric reptile with large wings, a long neck and a wicked spear-like beak. He secretly cheered on the crows.

The battle lasted only a minute, then the larger bird peeled away and resumed its journey.

"That was pretty weird, right?" he asked Bingo. But Bingo had no reply.

The Soldier came to appreciate the small hawks which circled high above, gliding silently on thermals as their sharp eyes remained alert for movement below. They made no noise, but each time the shadow of a hawk skimmed over the trees, the starlings either took to the wing and flew away screaming cries of alarm, or fell completely silent.

Every once in a while, the Soldier heard a quiet _'plop'_ which told of some small animal diving into the river, though the only creatures he saw were small water voles and their larger rat cousins. He'd thought Bingo might go after the rodents, but the dog ignored them, opting instead to remain in his human companion's shadow.

Nature had one last unpleasant surprise. As the sun began to sink and the temperature dropped, a swarm of unpleasant biting flies erupted from the edges of the river, where pools of stagnating water housed billions of tiny eggs just waiting for the right moment to hatch.

Desperation to be away from the bites forced the Soldier to stop and make a fire; he'd purchased a few disposable lighters from the convenience store in Leesburg, and this was the first time he'd felt the need to use them. He purposely kept the blaze small, to avoid drawing attention, but the fire did its job, and when he threw a few leaves and grasses onto the flames, the smoke drove most of the biting insects away.

 _I_ _'ve done this before,_ he thought. _In Italy. Those damned mosquitoes. I remember_ _… they bit so bad that everybody bled, and they always found a way into the tents to drink from us while we slept. Someone said citrus drove them away, and there was wild-growing lemon-grass nearby. It seemed to work._

He shook his head, trying to clear away the thought. He'd been to Italy before, but his only mission there had not involved camping in any form. He specifically remembered the unpleasant odours of Venice whilst stalking his target along the canals. There had been no camp fire.

The next day began much the same as the one before it. The Soldier was slowly falling into a routine of waking, travelling, stealing or purchasing, travelling again, then stopping for the night. Though he could easily have covered fifty miles a day alternating between a pressing march and a comfortable dog-trot, he opted for more of a stroll, trusting to the trees and the river bank to keep him hidden from sight. His sense of urgency had diminished since learning his picture hadn't been plastered all over the local tabloids, and he needed to give Hydra a chance to find him. That was the reason the Soldier settled on for his slow pace. It had nothing to do with the fact that Bingo was an old dog with stiff joints and sometimes lagged behind.

Later that afternoon, just as the Soldier was wondering whether it was worth striking inland a little to see if there was a settlement he could take advantage of, he came across a sight that made him stop in his tracks. Up ahead, the river forked into two wide channels, with a small settlement nestled between the bosom of the river and the gently rolling hills.

He had reached the town of Harper's Ferry, and could follow a single river course no longer.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: It hasn't been a fortnight, but the chapters are coming faster than I thought they would so I published this earlier than initially planned. Also, I have to revise my estimation on the story length; it will be more than twelve chapters. I'm already at ten and can see at least another five. I know, it's just terrible._

 _Thank you, anonymous_ _"Barton" reviewer. We will indeed be seeing Bucky doing all those things (but_ stealing _notebooks? For shame! He would never stea_ _—oh okay yes, he totally would.)_

 _What happens in the next chapter? The Winter Soldier does more Stuff. Steve and Sam become Frank Sinatra & Sammy Davis Jr (go, use Google, consider it your homework). Bucky recites poetry. Aliens Are Real After All. Stay tuned._


	3. Divergence

Running To You

 _3\. Divergence_

Not far from the confluence of the state lines of Maryland, Virginia and West Virginia, the Soldier stopped. Though he was no mathematical genius, he knew from how long it had taken him to reach this point, and the speed at which he had been travelling, that he was roughly a hundred miles from D.C. There was time enough for Hydra to have found him; that they hadn't meant either they weren't looking, or there was no-one left to look. The fact that the emergency line was not answered favoured the latter explanation.

He was well and truly on his own.

When he hunkered down for the night, he used up the last of the crackers he'd bought in Leesburg, along with the last of the flavoured water. Topping up his bottles from the river had kept his liquid supply from running out so far, but he didn't like to rely too heavily on the river; there was no telling what Americans dumped in their waterways.

"We gotta pick where to go next," he told Bingo, who was toying at a cracker with his paw. "One river looks like it heads north, and the other south. Ideally, I'd like to get to Europe, make my way home. I'm guessing airports are out; security will be too tight, after what happened in Washington, and we wouldn't be able to get you on a plane anyway. That means we have to get to a shipping port, and go by boat. I hope you don't get sea-sick."

Bingo ate the cracker he'd been playing with, then looked up and cocked his head, a hopeful expression in his brown eyes.

"Sorry boy, but that was the last. Maybe this town will have a pet shop, where I can buy you some proper food. At the very least I'll get a map. I don't know about you, but I hate not knowing where I'm going."

Though not truly tired, the Soldier settled down for the night and looked up at the stars. Much like nature, he'd never given them much consideration before, but after a time of studying them, he decided he liked them. They looked so friendly and benign, twinkling up there like long lost friends.

Bingo was soon quivering in a dog-dream, his paws trembling as he chased after some dream-prey. Sleep did not come as easily to the Soldier. The uneasy feeling had returned to his stomach, and the more he thought about the future, the more the feeling grew, a monster eating him from the inside. Whilst following the river, he'd been able to keep himself from thinking too far ahead. It was something to do. Follow the river until he was found. He'd taken it for granted that the river would just keep going.

Now he faced a dilemma the likes of which he had never encountered before. Though he could think creatively to accomplish a mission, he wasn't used to thinking for himself beyond the pre-established parameters. Ever since meeting the tall man with the shield, it felt like those parameters were crumbling away. Now, for the first time since he could remember, the Soldier had to make a decision which affected himself, and he wasn't sure he was ready for it.

o - o - o - o - o

The kettle on the stove whistled as it boiled. Sam Wilson grabbed a mitt and lifted the kettle off the flame, pouring the hot water into the two cups on the kitchen table. As he poured, a small laconic smile tugged at his lips. In a world where kettles could be controlled by smart-phones, the world's greatest soldier opted for the oldest thing he could find. Change came slowly for a man out of time.

He dropped two sugars in his own coffee, and one in Steve's. A dollop of milk went into each, then he picked up both cups and returned to the living room of the small apartment.

He hadn't asked where Steve had gotten the extra two televisions from. He probably didn't want to know. Steve's original television set, an ancient model even older than the kettle, cut a stark contrast to the two LCD flat-screen things he had on either side of it. But despite their differences, they all showed similar images. Sam hadn't asked where Steve had gotten D.C. CCTV footage from, either.

"Anything?" he asked, handing over one cup of coffee and sinking down onto the sofa beside Captain America. The thought almost made him dizzy. He was in Captain America's apartment. Sitting right beside the Cap after fighting beside him as an equal. _Captain freakin_ _' America!_ This was a childhood dream come true. Yet the most surprising thing was not the Cap's speed, or his strength, or how he had recovered from being shot four times and beaten to a pulp in a matter of days… it was how much of a normal, nice guy Steve was under all that blond hair and muscles.

A shake of the head was the only response given, and Sam wasn't surprised. They'd been poring over footage for the past twenty four hours—what were the chances that the world's most deadly and elusive assassin would slip up right when Sam Wilson took a five minute coffee break?

"Y'know, I never would have thought there would be so much CCTV footage for a single six-hour period," he said.

"D.C.'s gotta lot of cameras," Cap agreed.

"I know it's really none of my business, but don't you have… resources… that can do this faster? Stark's got a super-computer, hasn't he? That thing could probably analyse all this footage in seconds." Hell, Stark could probably build something to detect secret Hydra assassins in the time it took Sam to make two cups of coffee. And it would probably be well-armed enough to subdue a brain-washed killing machine.

Steve took a deep breath and hit the pause button on each of the digital hard-drives. Sam found himself the recipient of a wary, speculative, assessing look, and he tried not to fidget in his seat. It was hard not to fidget when Captain America was weighing you up. At last, Steve sighed out the breath he'd been holding, his broad shoulders dipping a little.

"No, it's your business too. If you're in this with me, then you deserve some answers."

 _Some_ answers, Sam noted. Not _all_ the answers. But that was okay. Every man deserved his secrets, and he knew better than anyone that trust was worthless if it was given away freely; real trust had to be earned. And he very much wanted to earn the Captain's trust.

"Sure, I could get the team in on this," Steve continued. "But I don't want it to be an Avengers thing."

"You don't trust your friends?" Sam guessed.

A wry smile pulled Steve's lips up. "I trust them to do what they think is right. But what they think is right, isn't necessarily what I think is right. Nat would understand, I think. Clint, too. They've been here before. But the others…"

The Cap's eyes went very briefly to the dossier on the magazine table before returning to Sam's face.

"You've been kinda pensive ever since Romanov gave you that thing," Sam pointed out. _Pensive_ was an understatement. After reading the dossier, Steve had been brooding quietly for two days. Only the delivery of the CCTV footage from around D.C. for the six hours directly following the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s headquarters had pulled the big man out of his reverie.

"There's a lot to digest. The information in that file covers less than a third of the missions Hydra sent Bucky on over the past fifty years… but it's enough to know I don't want the Avengers involved."

Sam held up his hands. "Okay. We're doing this your way, so if you say no Avengers, then no Avengers. I'll help you for as long as it takes. But in my experience, when somebody runs, it usually means they don't wanna be found. If Barnes is as good at hiding his tracks as you say, you might have to accept the fact that we may never catch up to him."

"I know. But I have to try. He's my friend, Sam, and he needs my help."

"No doubt. All I'm saying is… try to manage your expectations. This isn't going to be a sprint; it's a marathon."

Steve nodded, but Sam could tell his words hadn't phased him even one bit. He'd seen dedication before, but this went beyond that.

"We don't leave people behind, Sam," said Cap, coming eerily close to guessing Sam's thoughts. "Think about Riley. Imagine if somebody told you he was alive. Wouldn't you do everything you could to find him? Now imagine that he's not just your flight partner, but your best friend from childhood. Somebody who's been there for you every step of the way. Somebody who stuck by you and stuck up for you when nobody else would. There were times when I held him back, when just being my friend meant sometimes sitting on the sidelines, but he never once complained, never resented our friendship, never once tried to push me away."

"I understand. But you're not leaving him behind, he's—"

"You don't understand. I already _did_ leave him behind." Steve stood up and paced the floor, looking suitably heroic even when doing that. With sudden clarity, Sam understood. Survivor's guilt was a powerful motivator. "When he fell from that train, when I lost him… I should have jumped after him."

"You had a mission to complete. And you had no way of knowing he was alive. If he'd been anyone else, the fall would have killed him, and jumping after him would have meant losing both of you and the mission as well." He told the Captain everything the man already knew, but Steve was still at that stage where guilt and grief were stronger than logic. Sam had seen it a thousand times; been there himself, spent months in that pit, after Riley. It still cut him to the core to see it in others.

"Then I should've gone looking for… for his body." Cap's voice quavered. Damn near broke. But he pulled himself back from the edge, didn't let himself take the step forward he needed. "If I'd found him in time, I could have prevented all of this. My friend wouldn't have spent the past fifty years killing at the command of others."

"From what I hear, you didn't exactly have time to go on that sort of search. The Red Skull was putting a bird in the air that could've wiped out half the continent." As a kid, Sam had spent countless hours reading old war stories, many of them involving Steve, and could recite them by heart. Captain America was one of the main reasons he'd decided to become a soldier in the first place. To hear such self-depreciation from the man who was a hero to a nation was a heavy blow. "You saved millions."

"And abandoned my friend."

"Steve, you didn't abandon your friend; you got frozen in ice for seventy years. What would you have done if you'd managed to put that plane down somewhere safe? You'd've gone looking for him, right?" Steve said nothing, and Sam could tell by the tense set of his jaw that he was getting through to the big man. But Steve wouldn't truly be able to accept the truth until he was ready. Right now, he wasn't ready. The memory and the grief were too fresh, old, barely-healed wounds now open and raw. The hardest person to forgive wasn't your enemy, but yourself.

"When I lost Bucky," Cap said quietly, "a part of me died with him. Now that part of me is back, but it's a part I feel like I can't control. Like it's eating away at me from the inside. I left him behind once, Sam. I'm not going to leave him behind again."

"Then we better get back to this footage." When Steve nodded, Sam resumed the recordings. "Do you really think he's still in Washington?"

"No." The word came so easily that it took Sam by surprise. Steve closed his eyes briefly before elaborating. "I think he's out of the city. Probably out of the country. Maybe even off the continent. But I have to know." There was anguish in the wide blue eyes when he opened them on Sam's face. "I have to be absolutely positive he's not here before we starting looking everywhere else."

"What makes you think he hasn't gone running straight back into the open arms of Hydra?" It was possible. Sure, Hydra was severely weakened, maybe even crippled, but there had to be _some_ sort of contingency in place. Some back-up plan the Winter Soldier had been ordered to fall back on, in the case of catastrophic emergency. That's how he would have done it, if he'd been in charge of brainwashing super-soldier assassins.

Steve was silent for a long time. When he finally answered, there was an undertone of something in his voice. Something a man could cling to even when the night was darkest: hope.

"Because he saved me. Not only did he not kill me when he had the chance—and he had the chance several times—he also saved my life. When he was looking down on me, I saw the Winter Soldier façade slip away. For a brief moment, I saw Bucky. Confused, afraid, in pain… but he was there. And he recognised me. When he pulled me from the river, he knew that I'd come after him. He may not know it, but on some level, he wants to be found."

"I sure hope you know your friend as well as you think you do, because that's a whole lot of supposition about the guy who turned your face into an anti-violence campaign poster."

"Trust me, Sam."

"I do, Captain." He turned his focus back to the televisions, to the millions of people who _weren_ _'t_ Bucky Barnes. "I do."

o - o - o - o - o

"'… _I shall be telling this with a sigh,_

 _Somewhere ages and ages hence:_

 _Two roads diverged in a wood, and I_ _—_

 _I took the one less traveled by,_

 _And that has made all the difference._ _'_

" _The last verse of Frost's poem gives us the gist of what it's really about; not travelling, not indecision, but what a man's choices say about him. From the earlier verses of the poem we can deduce that the poem's protagonist is not travelling with any particular destination in mind, or else he would already know which path to take to reach his journey's end. At the same time, he acknowledges that 'way leads on to way' and knows that he's unlikely to be back, leaving the road not taken to be one forever missed."_

 _The Soldier looked across the room at his silent classmates behind their desks. The brunette in the front row_ _—Jane—had been ignoring his not-so-subtle flirtations for months now, tossing her perfectly curled hair whenever he asked to walk with her to her next class, feigning disinterest when he asked to sit opposite her in the dining hall. But when he_ _'d found out about her love of poetry, he'd thrown himself into his English Literature homework assignment with gusto. Even Steve, who was lying at home in bed recovering from yet another spring cold, had offered some suggestions. The Soldier was pretty good with words, knew how to use them plainly or with dual meaning… but Steve was better._

" _The last two lines, in particular, tell us everything we need to know about the traveller; that he's a man of adventure who seeks to be challenged by the world and to challenge himself by taking the path less worn. At the same time, he laments—in the title of the poem—the road he never got to travel, knowing that perhaps equal adventures lay down it to be trodden some other time by some other man. But—" Here he paused for dramatic effect, waiting until Jane leant forward in her chair just a little, silently willing him on. He very nearly smiled. 'Lament' had been one of Steve's words, along with the idea of regret for the untravelled road, but the next part was entirely his own._

" _On a deeper level, the poem tells us a story not about an adventurous yet indecisive traveller, but of the limitations man accepts of himself. The traveller, so daunted by the task of choosing one of two paths, so deep in regret over the road not taken, never considers that he has a third choice; to strike out into the woods leaving both paths behind to forge his own trail. Content to walk paths others have made for him, he never questions whether he should make one of his own. It isn't the road not taken which is the tragedy in this poem, but the fact that the traveller recounting his tale never even considers that he had any other choice but to follow."_

 _The class clapped as he resumed his seat, and the Soldier smiled. Jane_ _'s eyes were looking at him with a new light in them. Mission accomplished._

The Soldier awoke with a start, the sound of his blood pumping through his ears. He tensed his body, preparing to fend off the doctors and soldiers who always came to return him to the chair when the flashes started… but no doctors came. He quickly realised why. This wasn't a Hydra base, it was the woods lining the bank of the Potomac River, and he was alone.

He pushed himself up to sit with his back against a boulder and let his head lean forward, clasping it with his hands. When he closed his eyes he could see the smile on Jane's face, the appreciative gleam in her eyes. She hadn't been his first kiss, but certainly his best up to that point. Their summer fling had ended when she moved away with her family to California. They'd both promised to write each other; neither had.

"We didn't have email back then." His voice came out low, croaky, and he took a drink to quench his thirst. Bingo watched him patiently, brown eyes questioning, yet undemanding. "No internet. You had to wait days for a letter. I kept telling myself, 'I'll write it tomorrow.' And then tomorrow came around, and I always found something else to do. I wonder what became of her? Dead, probably. Everything dies."

He closed his eyes and let the boulder take his weight as he brought up the image again, tried to better remember her face. He hadn't thought about Jane in years. Had completely forgotten about her, in fact. So why should he think of her now? And more importantly, was his memory of Jane _real_ , or was it something Hydra had put in there to make him a more believable spy?

Pushing away all other thoughts, he focused on Jane. Brown curls, pretty smile, legs that went on forever… yet she never seemed aware of how pretty she was. Her head was often buried in a poetry book. Brainy and beautiful; a great combination in a woman. That was what had first attracted him to her.

He opened his eyes as memories fell into place, a small flood of them trickling into the empty spaces of his mind. "She called me 'James'. I remember now. Every time someone called me 'Bucky', she wrinkled her nose like it annoyed her. Little boys had nicknames, she said. Not men." He looked at Bingo. "I wonder if that's why she never wrote?"

Bingo whined and got up, nosing around the backpack.

"Are you hungry, boy?" The Soldier felt his empty stomach grumble. Crackers were poor sustenance for a man on the move, especially a man with an increased metabolism. "Me too. Why don't we head into town and get something to eat?"

The dog did not object, so the Soldier packed up what little possessions he had and set off on the rough trail with Bingo trotting at his heels. Not far away he heard the traffic of a road, and realised this was probably the main route to the town. Staying out of sight would become harder, the closer he got to the road, but now he had another element to add to his disguise; he was just a guy walking his dog.

For half an hour he walked in silence broken only by the sound of the river and the traffic. It was a grey sort of day, misty and damp, and the songbirds had foregone their morning symphony. With nothing to distract his mind, the Soldier turned his thoughts inward, to the subject of his dream. Not Jane, this time, but to the poem he had picked for his English assignment.

"Why would Hydra put Robert Frost's poetry in my head?" he asked aloud. "Or did I do that? Did they just dump a load of information inside my brain and let my mind fill in the blanks?"

Oh, what he wouldn't give to have some answers right now! Some solid information to work with, so that he could formulate a plan and maybe give himself some orders to follow. If only he could find somebody—anybody—from Hydra. Sure, the organisation wasn't big on giving answers, but at least if he had someone from Hydra to question he could put their own interrogation techniques to work.

He stopped in his tracks as a new idea tickled seductively at his mind, and Bingo walked right into the back of his legs. But the Soldier barely felt the dog collide with him. The new idea blossomed fully, then started to turn itself into a plan, twisting and taking root and offering a glimmer of hope. If he couldn't get answers from Hydra, maybe he could get them elsewhere. Hadn't the newspaper article said that all of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra's files had been released onto the internet? If he could get to a computer and access some of those files, he might be able to find data on himself. He was Hydra's greatest asset; there had to be _something_ on him.

When he set off it was with a springier step. Now that he had a plan, the uneasy feeling in his stomach had dissipated and a tension between his shoulder blades, which he hadn't realised was there before, melted away. It was time to learn more about who he was and where he came from. After that, he could figure out where he had to go.

o - o - o - o - o

The Winter Soldier was torn between wanting to pinch himself, and not wanting to deal with the bruise that pinching himself with a metal hand would have caused. He settled for staring at the computer monitor, trying to make some sense of the images it was showing him.

The public library of Harper's Ferry was small, but the computers each had their own secluded bays, which suited the Solder just fine. Sequestered in a bay for the past three hours, he'd jotted down information in a notepad he'd bought before finally deciding to Google information about his former Mission. A few pictures of Captain America posing for the camera in various iterations of his spangly uniform were followed by pictures that the Soldier was certain couldn't be real. Aliens? Flying monsters? Rifts in space? And something called a 'Hulk'? He'd known the world could be a strange place, could recall the nightmare of once seeing a man peel his own face off to reveal a frightening red skull beneath, but he hadn't known exactly how strange it had gotten.

Why hadn't Hydra put any of _this_ in his head? Robert Frost made the cut, but not the knowledge that aliens existed and had laid waste to New York? Dutifully, he noted down some specific dates and key facts about the invasion, then hit 'back' to the images and studied the picture of his adversary a little closer. He was a handsome man with a proud bearing… yet, other pictures showed him as smaller, skinnier, not quite the heroic icon. The Soldier made notes about the super-soldier serum, then went back to the search engine main page.

He started to type 'Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes', but stopped halfway through. There was no telling what programs were monitoring search results, collecting data for the government, or worse. Some knowledge in the recess of his mind told him that searches using the internet had to look like organic progressions, to make them harder to track. He deleted what he'd written and went back to the Captain America search page, navigating his way through several links until he sought the man he was looking for.

His own face looked back at him from the screen.

The face was a little younger, a little less hard, a little less worn, but even in black and white, there could be no mistaking it for the face of anyone else. Quickly, he shut the image down, scanning the room around him in case anybody had been looking at his search and made the connection between the man on the screen and the man in the booth. Confident he was alone, he went back to the picture and stared at it.

There he was, wearing a US Army uniform. Carrying a gun. Standing next to Captain America. The man had been right; they _did_ know each other. But that didn't mean the scientist from his flash was wrong. Just because he knew Captain America, did not mean they were friends. If James Buchanan Barnes really was a Hydra spy, then it made sense that getting close to Captain America would have been part of that deception.

He had to know more.

' _Find out more about Bucky Barnes at the Captain America WWII display — now open at the Smithsonian Museum! (open Monday-Saturday, 9am - 7pm)'_

The advertisement on the web page promised an exciting and informative Captain America display, with interactive elements and actual footage shot during his World War Two campaigns.

The Soldier drummed his fingers on the desk, his mind deep in thoughts of things that could go wrong, of ways to make such a thing safer. Seeing pictures on a screen was one thing, but to be surrounded by actual items, and real footage, from the time he had allegedly known Captain America personally… it was too enticing an opportunity to pass up. Perhaps it would finally reveal the truth and put his demons to rest.

Bingo was waiting patiently for him outside the library. The Soldier crouched down in front of him and gave the dog a piece of jerky from his pocket.

"I'm sorry boy, I know we've walked a long way, but now we've gotta walk all the way back again. There's something in Washington I have to see. You don't have to come with me if you don't want to." Bingo merely panted and put his paw on the Soldier's knee. The Soldier scratched behind his ears and gave him another piece of jerky. "All right then. But this time we'll walk back on the other side of the river. That's where you started from, right? Maybe on that side, you'll finally find your way home."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: Many thanks to everyone who's reviewed (and more importantly,_ _ **read**_ _) so far. Some of you have disabled PM responses (maybe to prevent me rambling at you?) but it_ _'s good to know you're enjoying the story to date. I'm giving this story the same 'update' treatment as my Deadpool fic; a bunch of chapters are pre-written, and each time I finish a new one, I'll upload an old one._

 _What_ _'s up in the next chapter? The Winter Soldier discovers… Hobbits? Some blatant French stereotyping. Arm-wrestling. Some British tea-bashing. What's in a name? More Bingo! Stay tuned._


	4. Day at the Museum

Running To You

 _4\. Day at the Museum  
_

The world was full of little people. They loitered in groups, chased each other around displays and continuously got under the feet, their laughs and calls and shrieks filling the air like the starlings of the river bank. They were agents of disorder, completely uncontrollable by the adults who tried to chivvy them along. When Pierce had spoken of a tipping point between order and chaos, he should have used children, not soldiers, to achieve his new world order.

The Soldier stood planted in the middle of the swarm, his eyes half-closed and his brows furrowed in concentration. Augmented hearing was useful in the field, but there were times when he wished he could hear less. This was one of those times.

Something collided with his legs, and he looked down to find a small boy staring up at him with wide brown eyes. Behind him, the two boys who'd been chasing him giggled mischievously.

"Oops, sorry mister," said the boy, dashing off to cause chaos elsewhere before the Soldier could even think of reacting.

His exposure to children had been minimal. The nature of his missions and his targets tended to preclude the presence of kids, so, like nature and the stars, he hadn't really given them much consideration before. Now, as he watched them with a sort of wary curiosity, he realised something about them.

 _They live without rules._

They seemed to do what they wanted, and if they listened to adults, it was because they deigned to do so. No adult would get away with running around screaming like that. How nice it must be, to be a child.

 _Was I ever that small?_

The Soldier's thought recalled his original purpose for visiting the museum, and he made his way through the crowd towards the sign for the Captain America display, moving carefully so he didn't step on one of the little ones. ' _Winter Soldier seen crushing children at Captain America exhibit_ _'_ was not a headline he wanted to read tomorrow.

A quiet fanfare of music welcomed him as he rode the escalator down into the museum's belly, and he was met by the sight of an old bomber's fuselage suspended from the ceiling. Those around him seemed eager to be here. Even the children were quieter, as if the display called for particular gravitas. The Soldier followed the crowd to a desk, where a young woman greeted him with a smile.

"Hey there, would you like to purchase the audio tour? Only five dollars, and it includes a voucher for a free coffee upstairs in the café when you're done!"

"Sure." He handed over a five dollar bill, accepted the voucher and let the woman explain how to work the audio tour. To be on the safe side, he left the headphones looped around his neck, where he could pick up the words but would still be able to hear everything going on around him. Then he stepped into both his future, and his past.

The first part of the display was a brief history of the man the Soldier had been ordered to kill. He didn't spend too long in that area; most of what was here was information he'd already read on the internet. When he came across a screen onto which a life-sized image of Captain America was projected against a height scale, the Soldier stopped. An inch shorter than the tall, blond man, he didn't quite measure up.

When he moved on and found himself looking at a half-dozen over-sized faces painted behind dressed-up mannequins, he took a sharp intake of breath and felt names falling through his head like coins in a quarter-pusher machine, dragging with them hazy memories tinged with echoes of emotions he couldn't yet put names to. He paused the audio tour and looked up at the faces, addressing each one mentally in turn, starting with the moustached man wearing a black bowler hat.

 _Timothy Dugan_ _… you hated that. Wouldn't let anybody call you anything but your nickname; Dum Dum. You were a strongman before signing up, and the second strongest man on the team. I remember challenging you to an arm-wrestle… London, I think, one of those pubs you loved so much. I'd had a bit to drink… too much. I doubt I would have challenged you sober. You didn't just beat me, you sent me flying across the room. We laughed about it, and the next day I felt like a walking bruise. You had a thing for a red-head… Elizabeth, I think. She called us trigger-happy Yanks, but that didn't stop her giving you a goodbye kiss before… before…_

 _Gabriel Jones. Your jokes and stories about your high-school days kept smiles on our faces even when Hydra worked us past exhaustion. I remember you used to toy with the guards, pretending to be American one day, then the next only speaking in French_ _… each time they beat you for pretending not to understand what they were saying, you seemed more determined than ever to keep doing it. When I got sick and they took me away from the rest of the prisoners, when I lay there strapped to that bed, there were times when the only thing that kept me sane was thinking of you and your stories. I swear, I could hear you telling jokes all the way down in the cells._

 _Jacques Dernier_ _… nobody could put together or take apart a bomb like you. You promised that after Paris was liberated, you'd treat us to some of that awful cheese and a vintage bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in that little café you liked to talk about. When Dum Dum said that was more of a threat than a promise, you punched him square on the jaw. I'll never forget that look on his face… or how fast you ran away. Well, Paris got liberated, and I hope you were there to see it. I'm sorry I never got the chance to let you poison me with mouldy cheese._

 _James Montgomery Falsworth. I used to tease you because of our name._ _'Old James', I called you, and you took it in your stride, responding with that eye-rolling expression you used to love so much. Then, when we ran out of coffee mid-way through our Hungarian campaign, you got me back by making me drink tea. To this day I have no idea where you kept getting it from. I told the others that all English people had to walk around with an emergency tea ration, or they got withdrawal symptoms, but there were times in that Hydra workhouse when I would have given my left arm for a cup of tea. If you could see me now, your British love of irony would make you smile._

 _Jim Morita. For the first two days we were in London, I called you_ _'Little James'. Then you drank me under the table and I kinda had to stop after that. Whoever said Asians can't hold their liquor obviously never met you. What I remember best is how you'd try anything once… not even Dernier's threat of mouldy cheese was enough to phase you. Then, out in Switzerland, Gabe and Dernier went wading into a pond and came out with a bunch of snails for you to try. And you almost did it, too, until Falsworth told you they looked like a poisonous variety. I think he might have been bullshitting, I'm not sure there's any such thing as poisonous snails, but you were sure willing to give it a shot up to that point._

He stood silently, drowning in memories which came crashing through the floodgate of his mind. God, these men had been like family to him, brothers in arms united by the hell they'd seen and the friends they'd lost under Hydra's tender care. For months they had lived together, worked together, fought together… laughed, cried, bled, carried each other through difficult times, through sweat and blood and toil. How had he ever forgotten them? They may not have shared ties of blood, but they were family in every way that counted.

 _I am so sorry,_ he thought to them. _I forgot about you, but at least the world remembers. At least your lives are here, for all to see. They may not know about the arm-wrestling in London, about the snails, the mouldy cheese, the jokes we told to keep each other sane in that prison, or any of other things that got us through each day_ _… but they remember. That's all that matters._

The faces remained silent, the dressed mannequins unmoving. The Soldier took a deep breath and moved his gaze on. He'd purposely avoided looking at the blond-haired face at the front and the dark-haired face beside him. Now, he forced himself to look. As far as likenesses went, it wasn't too bad, he supposed. The man to Captain America's left looked suitably heroic. He looked like a man who knew his duty and went about it without hesitation or doubt.

But that was just a painting. Maybe the truth was different. Maybe James Buchanan Barnes had been a coward. Maybe he'd just gone along with everything because there was nothing else to do. Orders were orders, and while following them, you didn't have to think. You didn't have to question. You just did your job. Perhaps history lied, just like Hydra, just like Captain America, just like his own memory.

When he moved closer to the television screen beneath the mannequin display, he found himself looking at… himself. But this self wasn't a lie. It was himself standing with Captain America, smiling, laughing at some joke one of them had told, a joy that was plain to see in his eyes. His self in the video seemed so young, so happy, so at ease with his place in the world. The Winter Soldier blinked away moisture from his eyes—caused by the dryness of the air-conditioned atmosphere, nothing more—and looked at the man he had been.

 _Why don_ _'t I remember you? Aren't you inside my head? Can you see what I see? Can you hear me? Or did Hydra kill you and stick me in here instead? When I get flashes, are they nothing more than a dead man's dreams?_

There was no answer, but he suspected he'd just reached the levels of insanity he'd predicted whilst talking to Bingo. He just didn't know what was worse, as far as insanity went; talking to the people in your head and hearing nothing, or talking to them and hearing them talk back.

A tall glass display caught his attention in the corner of his eye, and he drifted towards it, captivated by the face looking out at him. _His_ face. Beside his over-sized face were two paragraphs of information, which he skimmed and then read again more carefully.

'… _Barnes grew up the eldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbour. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes experienced long periods of isolation, deprivation and torture. But his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America._

' _Reunited, Barnes and Rogers led Captain America's newly formed unit, The Howling Commandos. Barnes' marksmanship was invaluable to Rogers and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater.'_

The man described by the display did not sound like a coward. He didn't sound like a man who went along with things because obeying was easier than thinking for himself. He sounded like someone who didn't let the tough times beat him, who kept fighting to the end. Very ironic, that Hydra had captured him not once, but twice. Maybe that was why they'd made him do the things he did. Maybe it was revenge, for all the bases he'd helped destroy, for all the Hydra troops he'd killed. He'd thwarted their attempts at world domination during World War Two, and for the past seventy years they'd made him pay for that.

He straightened up. It was time to stop paying. Not even the world's broken banks charged the interest rates that Hydra demanded. Now, he owed it to the man he had been to learn more.

Moving on, he passed through the rest of the exhibit, taking in as much as he could, not just about himself, but about Captain America, and the War. This history was his own. Every face could be a piece of the puzzle. Every word might have meaning. He was lucky, he realised. How many people had lived and died, the minutiae of their lives lost forever, their names lasting only as long as the people who remembered them? Here, some of his life was preserved. The history books knew about Sergeant Barnes, as did the internet. He had been somebody, and enough of that somebody was left, in the world and in his head, that perhaps he might one day be somebody again.

At the end of the tour he was forced through a gift-shop selling pieces of the past and gaudy souvenirs; bookmarks, paperweights, bullet casings, 'genuine' wartime ration boxes… and rows upon rows of postcards. The Soldier even found one with his own face on it; he was standing beside Captain America, the words _"I visited Captain America at the Smithsonian"_ emblazoned in red, white and blue across the bottom. It was tacky, but it seemed to have a fan. A young girl stood on her tiptoes, trying to reach one of the cards and missing by several inches. The Soldier plucked one from the rack and gave it to her.

"Thanks, mister," she said, giving him a gap-toothed smile. Then, she squinted at him through her glasses. "Y'know, you kinda look like him." She pointed to the man beside Captain America in the picture.

"He was my grandfather," he lied smoothly.

Her eyes went wide. "That's so cool!"

The Soldier merely nodded. He gave his audio tour to the lady on the counter, and then went upstairs to get that free coffee. The museum had given him a lot to think about, and now that he knew a little more about the man he had been, he needed to figure out where to go from here.

o - o - o - o - o

"Can I just go back to being Sergeant James Barnes, or do I have to be somebody else, first?" He asked the question from his motel bed, head resting back against his arms as he looked up at the ceiling, trying to order the thoughts racing through his mind.

Bingo, stretched out on the floor, cocked his ears at the sound of his voice, but didn't even look up expectantly for food. It had taken them five days to walk half the distance to New York, and the Soldier had arrived at Wilmington a couple of hours earlier. This seemed as good a place as any to start behaving like a real person again. Real people didn't sleep rough when they had money, so he'd gotten himself a room for the night. The sign on the office door had said 'no pets', so he'd snuck Bingo in whilst the proprietor was busy dealing with a room complaint.

He'd switched the television onto the news channel but left the sound muted so that he could think. He'd done a lot of thinking over the past few days, and finally had a plan in place. From the information in the Smithsonian, he knew that at some point, he'd had family. Brothers and sisters. Parents, definitely. A visit to an internet café in Washington, and a rather protracted Google search, had told him that all but one of his immediate family were dead; he had a sister still alive, but her trail ended at some sort of psychiatric ward for dementia patients. Much as he wanted to see his sister's face, to see whether it brought back more flashes of memory, he worried what would happen if he turned up almost seventy years after going missing and looking only a couple of years older than he had in 1945. There was no telling what that sort of shock might do to somebody in an already dubious state of mind.

If he couldn't see his family, perhaps he could see the place where he had grown up instead. He'd managed to get his hands on his parents' old address—was there anything Google didn't know?—and planned to at least walk the streets of his home city, maybe even find a way into the house, as long as it wasn't under surveillance. With the plan in place, he was left with another, lesser concern.

"How much of him do I have to remember before I can be him again? How long before I can use his name?" He lay in silence for a moment as he considered his options. "I remember some things. That must mean that Hydra didn't kill him. He's still in my head. But why can't I hear him? If there are two people in one head, shouldn't we be able to talk to each other?"

He sat up straight as a new thought occurred, a thought which turned his skin to gooseflesh.

"Maybe we're not two people. Maybe we're just one person. Maybe when I get those flashes… maybe that's actually me. Maybe I'm not remembering _his_ life, but _mine_."

Pushing himself from the narrow bed, he went to the bathroom and switched on the shaving light above the mirror. His reflection looked back at him, the face more familiar now that he'd seen it plastered all over the Smithsonian. He brought his face closer to the glass, looking into his own eyes, searching for someone, or something. There were answers inside his head, he knew it, but they always seemed just out of his reach.

"I am Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes," he said. His reflection shook its head. It didn't sound right. Like he was using a name and title he had no right to. A name and a title he hadn't earned. Had stolen from some other guy who just happened to look exactly like him. What if, whilst using the name, he did something to tarnish it? "Maybe I should try being somebody else, first, and work my way back to being who I used to be." A litany of names ran through his head.

 _John_ _… no, too obvious. Peter? I don't think it suits me. Thomas? Could shorten it to Tom… no, I hate that name. Kevin? Not too bad, getting closer I think. Michael? I could see myself as a Michael. Maybe a Mike. Yes, if I need a name, that'll do._

"Or maybe I should just do like you," he said to the dog, "and wait for somebody else to give me a name. That way, I don't have anything to live up to. I don't have to act how I think a Michael should act. What do you think?"

Bingo rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.

"Right. Some help you are. I don't even know why you're still here. Don't you get fed up of following me around? I sure get tired of having you follow me."

He returned to the bed and sank down onto the lumpy mattress. The news channels had finally shut up about Washington. It still got a mention in the hourly updates, because it certainly wouldn't do to let the public forget about it and move on with their lives, but it was no longer the main focus. The state of the economy drew more viewers, now. With a little luck, the world would forget about the Winter Soldier.

But he knew, deep down, that there was one person who wouldn't forget. Steven Rogers had been willing to sacrifice his life, rather than hurt a friend. That look in his eyes, the calm acceptance on his face as he dropped his weapon, the very symbol of who he was and what he represented… a lifetime of friendship wasn't something the man would give up as easily as he had that shield. Sooner or later, Captain America would catch up with the Winter Soldier, and he had to figure out who he really was before that happened.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: Hello readers, thanks for following along up to this point. I hope you've enjoyed this chapter; I'll be delving more into memories of the war, and the Commandos, in future instalments. This was something of a teaser, because I do like to tease.  
_

 _You probably maybe want to know what's coming in the next chapter, right? Well, without saying too much, I can tell you that it involves: Coffee, not in the euphemistic sense. A Short History Of Nearly Iowa, as learned from one of Des Moines' most famous residents. The Winter Soldier scares a guy. Canada's greatest export (which is neither Ryan Reynolds, Alanis Morissett, nor—ugh—Justin Bieber). Dodgy Italian Engineering (which, as it turns out, is less inherently violent than Dodgy Russian Engineering; we're looking at_ you _, Winter Soldier). And more Bingo! Stay tuned._


	5. City Life

Running To You

 _5\. City Life_

New York was like Washington, only taller, and brighter. Where Washington sprawled lazily, hugging the river banks, New York reached for the heavens, a forest of skyscrapers wedged in the bay seemingly clamouring for height and importance. It was a city that never slept. At night, it barely even slowed down.

On the second leg of the journey, the Soldier had started to think of himself as 'Bucky'. Maybe he had no right to the nickname, but it was the name Captain America had called him by, and if it was good enough for Captain America, it was good enough for him. He might not remember much of Bucky's life before Hydra, but using the name and thinking of himself as that man gave him the incentive to keep remembering. The Bucky Barnes who'd followed Captain America had been a hero to many and a role model for generations. Now, Bucky was a role model for him, too. Something to aspire to. He couldn't use the name in public, of course, but there were other names for that. He didn't have to be 'Bucky' for anybody other than himself.

And maybe Captain America.

The first thing he'd done, upon reaching New York, was find a thrift store. He got himself some new old clothes and a jacket that fit more comfortably across his broad shoulders. The store assistant had directed him to a cheap motel, where he'd booked a room on the ground floor for several nights and managed to sneak Bingo in through a window. After that, he showered. He stood in the small cubicle for more than half an hour, enjoying the hot, streaming water pouring over his body, washing away the dust and sweat and grime he'd collected since Washington, trying to remember the last time he'd actually had a shower, or a bath, or anything other than dunking in Potomac.

 _I wonder why my arm doesn_ _'t rust_ , he thought, looking down at the metal arm that was as much a part of his body as his organic limb. Even under the hot water, it gleamed coldly, small metal plates overlapping to keep the water out. He had some dim memory of Hydra scientists working to fix it, when he was damaged during his first fight with Captain America… _What if I damage my arm again? Doctors and vets can fix bones, but they can't fix metal. They can't repair the damaged circuitry, like Hydra could._ Reaching out with his left hand, unsure of how he even had such control over the pressure he exerted with it, he turned off the shower and tried to put his concern aside. _I_ _'ll just have to be careful._

He wrapped a fluffy towel around his waist and returned to the bedroom to dress. Thanks to the work of one nervous veterinarian, he now had full mobility in his broken arm. It still twinged with a sharp stab of pain if he tried to lift anything too heavy, but the bone seemed to have set well, and he knew the soft tissue damage would heal in a matter of time. It was a shame the same could not be said for his shattered, broken memories. Those, he suspected, would not heal as easily as his body.

After dressing and pulling on his boots, he did a quick stock check. Half a packet of crackers and a small bag of dog biscuits were all that was left from his travels, and he was running out of money; what he had would only last a couple more days. He needed to get some more.

The easiest way to get cash was by disabling security cameras and breaking into ATM machines, but he couldn't keep doing that. Sooner or later, someone would connect the dots. He'd be in New York for a few days, which meant any connected dots might lead directly to him. He would have to find some other way of getting money. Some way that would not draw the attention of New York P.D.

He called Bingo to heel, checked that the coast was clear, and silently left the building, lest his rule-breaking dog incur the wrath of the motel owner's dragon of a wife. With no clear destination in mind, he walked the streets with his baseball cap pulled firmly over his eyes, dodging the locals as they went about their daily routine. Brighton Beach wasn't particularly close to where he'd grown up, but it was home to a large population of Russian immigrants. Here he could blend in and get a feel for the city before seeking out his old home. The Bucky Barnes he had once been wanted to go there right away, to walk around his old neighbourhood and live it all again. The training Hydra had given him urged greater caution.

He ambled down one of the streets leading away from the Brighton Beach area, his senses alert for threats, for danger, for anything even vaguely familiar. The city ignored him. He was one man among millions, small, unremarkable, forgettable. After a while, he let himself relax a little.

When the smell of fresh coffee caught his attention, he followed his nose to a café in the middle of a row of shops. The sign over the door named it _On The Clock_. The heady coffee aroma brought back a patchwork memory of liquid as strong as black tar, drunk from a battered old mug inside a moth-eaten khaki tent. He didn't think Hydra had indulged him with coffee, so the memory must have been one of his own, from before he was the Winter Soldier.

Keen to see if any other memories were forthcoming, he crossed the street and instructed Bingo to wait for him outside. When he stepped into the dim interior, he felt his pupils dilate as his vision adapted, automatically brightening the inside of the shop. It seemed a popular spot; every table held cups and empty dishes, every single chair taken by people who gossiped inside their own little bubbles of non-existent privacy. It looked like his coffee would be to-go, this time.

He stopped at the counter and studied the blackboard. It was full of words like espresso, grande, latte and frappe. He didn't understand the words, but guessed the language to be Italian. He'd been to Venice before, but only on a mission to kill—there hadn't been any need for that language to go in his head. Why couldn't people just write coffee words in English?

"Hey," the barista behind the counter chirped at him. She was a tall twenty-something with a luxurious tumble of dark red curls, and the apron she wore cinched at the waist showed off a curvy figure. For some reason, she reminded him of summer-fling Jane. "Can I help? You look a little lost."

"Yeah. How do I ask for a black coffee?"

She flashed him a warm smile. "You just did. Small, medium or large?"

"Medium."

"Just arrived in town, huh?" she chatted as she turned to the coffee machine.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well, you've got that look about you. Like you don't know what to do first."

"Oh." And he'd thought he'd been blending in well. Clearly there was more to this than he'd initially thought.

"Coming here was a good first choice." She put the paper cup on the counter and gave him a grin which made her brown eyes sparkle with some inner light. "Best coffee in Brooklyn."

"It smells great." His stomach rumbled in agreement. "I don't suppose you have anything to eat?"

"Sorry hun, but you just missed the lunch hour, and cook's already gone for the day. I think we have a couple of croissants left over from breakfast, if you like?" He mustn't have hid his disappointment very well, because she quickly glanced back to the kitchen door. "If you don't like, I could stick a bagel on the grill for you. How do you feel about cheese slices?"

"I love them," he lied. But it was better than stale croissant.

"'Kay, gimme a sec."

She disappeared into the kitchen. As he waited, he let his gaze become unfocused, allowing snippets of conversation to drift into his ears. When he heard no mention of Washington, or S.H.I.E.L.D., or any other mess he'd left behind him, he felt his shoulders relax as some of the tension he'd been carrying with him left his body. Washington was only two hundred miles down the road, but right then, it might have been an entire world away.

"Here you go," the woman said when she returned. A paper bag joined the paper cup. "Anything else I can do for ya?"

An idea sprang into his mind. He quickly seized it before it could try to escape. "Actually, maybe you can help me. I'm looking for work."

"Sorry, but we're not hiring."

He tried for a smile and gestured at the board. "That's okay, I don't speak Coffee anyway. You don't know of anywhere local taking on staff, do you?"

"Depends. What kind of work are you looking for?"

"Anything."

A mischievous smile tugged at her rouged lips. "You gotta be careful who you say that to, hun. Especially around here."

He filed her advice away for later use. "What I mean is, I'm not fussy. I'll take what I can get. I'm pretty good with my hands, and I don't mind heavy lifting. Oh, and I like animals."

She laughed in a rich, deep tone. "You sound like you're advertising yourself on Craigslist."

"I don't know what that is."

"Don't worry about it." She toyed with one of her curls as she considered his request, winding it around her finger before letting it bounce back into place. "Know anything about cars?"

"Sure."

"Tommy Schuler owns a garage over on North Street, and one of his mechanics got sent down last month… possession with intent to supply, or something like that. I hear Tommy's still looking for a replacement."

"I'll check it out right away. Thanks—" he glanced at her nametag, "—Penelope."

She rolled her eyes and flicked her hair back over her shoulder. "Penny, please. My jerk of a boss said full names look more professional, but if you'd had the nickname 'Pitstop' all through high-school, you'd never want to go by your full name again."

He didn't understand the significance of the nickname, but she seemed annoyed by it. Sympathy seemed the most appropriate response. "My condolences," he offered.

"Thanks. So, what's your name?"

His first hurdle, but he already had an idea about how to overcome it. He couldn't use his real name, and he couldn't be Bucky; not for her. Mike, John, Kevin… he had no idea how to be those people. As far as he knew, he had only ever been Bucky, or the Winter Soldier. But people had a good way, a very _people_ way, of filling in the blanks. He himself had done that, when he'd found Bingo. He knew, now, that the name had come from within him, from some half-remembered song about a soldier who had a dog and Bingo was his name. If there were names inside him, just waiting to come out, then surely there were names inside others, too.

"What do you think it is?" he asked her.

"Ooh, you like to play guessing games, huh?" He nodded. Guessing games. Yeah. Sure. Why not. Penny tapped her chin thoughtfully as she studied him. Her fingernails were the same shade of red as her hair, and perfectly shaped. "What do I get if I win?"

"Bragging rights only, I'm afraid."

"How boring. But fine… you look like you might be an Alex."

Alex? He certainly didn't feel like an Alex, but it was better than Tom. For Penny, he could be Alex. "That's amazing, how did you know?"

"What? No way!" she grinned. "Are you yankin' my chain?"

He couldn't see a chain on her, only a pair of silver hoop earrings. "Not at all."

"Huh. Maybe it's time I started playing the lotto."

"Yeah, maybe." He glanced to the window, to make sure Bingo hadn't drawn the attention of local animal control. The dog was waiting patiently as ever, and Bucky decided it was time to go. The longer he engaged someone in conversation, the greater the chance of making a slip, and pretending to be a normal person was taxing him more than he'd expected. Being a person was much more difficult than being a weapon. He felt another momentary pang of envy for the kids in the Smithsonian. "So, what do I owe you for this?" he asked, indicating the coffee and bagel on the counter.

"It's on the house."

He eyed it suspiciously. "Why?"

Penny let out a quiet giggle. "There's nothing wrong with it, if that's what you're asking. One of the perks of working in a coffee shop, is you get a free drink every day. But I don't drink coffee, myself. Might as well let someone benefit from it, right?" She gave him another warm smile, her fingers toying with another curl.

"Oh. Right. Well, thanks. I really appreciate it. I'll go and speak to that man, now. About that job."

He grabbed the coffee and the paper bag and tried not to seem too hurried as he strode towards the door. As he stepped outside, Penny called after him, "We start serving breakfast at eight!"

Bingo followed immediately as he set off down the street. Bucky looked down at his canine companion.

"You dogs have it so easy," he said. "And you're easier to talk to than people. Why can't people be more like dogs?"

Bingo had no answer. He merely watched as his master tucked into a cheesy bagel and whined when we wasn't saved a scrap.

"I may not know much, but I know cheese isn't good for dogs. You've got some biscuits back at the motel, though, and as soon as I have some money, I'll get you some real meat. You'll like that more than bagel. It's kinda rubbery anyway."

He sipped his coffee as he walked, marvelling in the way it was both bitter on his tongue, and possibly the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. Coffee, he was sure, was one of mankind's greatest contributions to the world. A single cup made him feel more like a human being than even his extended shower had. Let the English keep their inferior tea.

It wasn't too far to North Street, not by Bucky's standards at least. Fifteen minutes after leaving _On The Clock,_ he found himself standing outside _Schuler_ _'s Garage_. The stylised outline of a fast-looking car had been spray-painted onto the front of the building beneath the sign which named it. A wide roller shutter was up, showing a spacious garage area with three cars in various stages of repair. Bucky told Bingo to stay close, and walked on in.

Myriad smells assaulted his nose, sending more images tumbling through his mind. He couldn't remember ever owning a car, but he thought he'd spent a lot of time around them. Perhaps in the army, or maybe before that… or had Hydra merely put mechanical information into his head, so that their weapon would never find himself without some form of transport? Most of the time he found it difficult to differentiate between the two memory sets, and there were instances where they seemed to bleed into each other. Separating the snarl of memories was like untangling the trickiest knot in the world. It required skill. Patience. Probably a lot more coffee.

He followed his ears, the sound of a ratchet at work, and discovered a pair of legs sticking out from beneath a jacked up car. The legs were wearing sturdy boots and navy blue overalls, and the man beneath the car was singing along, quite out of tune, to a song on the radio… something about a man looking like a lady. Unsure of how to address himself to the legs, he waited until the man slid out of his own accord. When the man saw Bucky standing there, he jumped almost a foot into the air.

"Sweet mother Mary, fella, you scared the bejeezus outta me." He ran a dirty hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, blue eyes scanning Bucky from head to toe.

"Sorry."

"I didn't hear you come in. If you're looking for repairs, I can't fit you in for two days… I got a waiting list as long as my nose."

The man did have a rather impressively long nose.

"Actually, I'm looking for work," Bucky said. "I heard you were looking for a mechanic."

"You're a mechanic?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. You don't look like a mechanic… your hand's too clean." Bucky looked down at his hand, the one which wasn't covered by a glove to stop people staring. Thanks to his shower, it was dirt free. Not like the man's hands; even after he wiped them on a rag sticking out of his pocket, they were still oily, his nails nearly black. "Where you from?"

Bucky had prepared for this. To prevent any in-depth questioning into his past, he needed to give the name of the most boring place known to mankind. A place nobody had any interest in hearing about.

"Iowa."

"Iowa, huh?" the man mused, eyeing him warily. "You don't _sound_ like you're from Iowa. You sound like you've come from just down the road."

Damn. "I was born here in New York," he said, trying to find the best lie to fit his circumstances. "Grew up in Queens, 'til I was ten. Then my dad inherited some land and a farm from his grandpa out in Iowa, moved the whole family there. Kinda relieved to hear I never picked up the accent of a bumpkin."

"No offence son, but I need someone who's worked on more than tractors. What I was really hoping for was an auto-electrician."

"I can do that too," he assured the man, which earned him a look of deep skepticism. He sniffed the air, and finally placed a familiar scent that had been tickling at his memory. "Is that two-stroke oil I can smell?"

The man nodded and walked over to the side of the garage, where a once-white now-grey dust sheet was covering something angular. He pulled the sheet aside to reveal the engine and front half of a motorbike.

"Been having some problems with the injectors."

"Have you checked the air-fuel ratio?"

"First thing I looked at. You like bikes?"

"Even more than I do cars," he nodded. _And a hell of a lot more than I do tractors._

"Tell you what, that car I was working on, I just did an oil change and replaced the filter, but it needs new front brakes—discs and pads both—a new set of sparks and front and rear tyres. You do a decent job on that, and I'll officially start you on a trial basis tomorrow. How does that sound?"

"It sounds fair," he agreed, trying to suppress the grin that had clawed its way onto his face. This was great. His first real job, and it was… what was that phrase he'd heard on the television? _In the bag._

"Alright then. I'll be working on the Ford, the idiot who owns it blew the head gasket, probably needs a whole new engine. Just hollar if you need anything."

Bucky didn't need anything. He threw himself into the task, let the songs on the radio set his pace, giving him a rhythm to work to. Off came the wheels and the worn pads and discs, replaced with a new set, and then new tyres. The first four spark plugs were changed easily, but the position of the second two gave him more difficulty. Finesse in his cybernetic hand had been sacrificed for strength, but he persevered. Less than two hours after he'd started, he closed the hood and turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred to life.

"I've finished," he called to his potential employer. The man appeared from behind the Ford looking sweaty and annoyed. When he saw the car on the floor and the engine running smoothly, however, his face smoothed out.

"That was quick."

"I'm a fast worker."

"Fast isn't necessarily thorough. You cut corner in this line of work, somebody dies. Then you get sued for negligence."

"I didn't cut any corners."

"Hmph. Well, stick her on the rollers, let's make sure those brakes really work."

Bucky manoeuvred the car onto the rollers and ran it forward, testing the brakes when instructed. After the test, he cut the engine and joined the man by the readout.

"Seems fine. At least I know you can be trusted not to screw up simple mechanics." The man's eyes weighed him up. "You do drugs?"

"No, never."

"Drink?"

"I had a coffee a couple of hours ago."

"Nobody smokes in my garage."

"I don't smoke at all."

The man gave a mollified grunt. "What's your name, son?"

"Alex," he said, and picked the most generic surname from the top of his head. "Alex Smith."

"Well, Alex Smith, if your papa calls wanting you back on that farm, tell him that you work for Tommy Schuler, for now."

Tommy held out his hand, and Bucky took care not to shake it too hard.

"Thank you, Mister Schuler. I appreciate the chance."

"Nobody but my lawyer and my dentist call me 'Mister Schuler.' It's Tommy. Come back at ten o'clock tomorrow; I got an Alfa Romeo 4C coming in needs some electrical work. I have a go-to guy for that sort of thing, but if you can do the job, you'll save me some money, and you can consider yourself gainfully employed."

"I will. And thanks again. See you tomorrow."

"And don't be late!" Tommy called, as Bucky gestured for Bingo to come to heel. "There's no such thing as 'better late than never.' It's on time, or not at all."

Bucky waved in agreement as he left the garage. This day, he felt, had gone well. He'd managed to pretend to be a person for almost all of it, and now he had a job, just like anybody else. Tomorrow he would get himself a decent breakfast at the café, get Bingo a nice bag of tripe, and earn some money the proper way. Soon, he'd have a life he could call his own.

o - o - o - o - o

At five past eight, Bucky stepped inside _The Clock_ and was greeted by Penny's smile.

"Morning, Alex. I figured you'd be an early riser."

"Yeah. I like to be up with the sun," he agreed. He didn't bother telling her that a few hours of sleep per week was sufficient for him. That wasn't the normal person thing to do.

"Lemme guess… medium black coffee to drink, and to eat..?"

"What do you recommend?"

"Cook does the best pancake stack on the whole east coast. Topping of your choice; we got chocolate, banana, raspberry syrup, maple syrup, cinnamon, berry compote, bacon—"

"Maple syrup sounds great," he interrupted.

"Good call," she grinned. "Take a seat and I'll bring your order as soon as it's done."

Habit, or perhaps years' worth of training in caution and paranoia, made him take the table closest to the door, where he could keep an eye on who was coming into the building and passing on the street outside. Several fliers adorned the table top, and he glanced over them as he waited. They advertised a variety of events; local craft fairs, art exhibitions, beer-tasting festivals… the most colourful flier, which looked like it had been viciously assaulted by an army of rainbows, advertised a gay pride parade.

New York sure had changed a lot, since the 1930s.

The crackle and sputter of a short-range radio made him freeze. The sound heralded the arrival of two cops; they strolled into the café and greeted Penny by name. They ordered coffee, then glanced around the room as they waited. Bucky sat immobile, not even daring to put down the gay pride flier clutched between his fingers. Bucky Barnes had had nothing to fear from police in the past, but the Soldier's training was very specific about how to deal with local law enforcement. It took every ounce of self control he possessed to remain still; he felt a trickle of sweat roll down his back and forced his breathing to remain steady and slow.

Breathing slowly helped, but oxygen alone couldn't fight the near-intoxicating surge of adrenaline churning through his veins. His body and mind had been so perfectly honed to deal with threats that his fight-or-flight response was instantaneous… and never, until his final mission, in Washington, had it swung to flight. Only as he sat there feigning interest in the pride leaflet did he finally realise how difficult it was going to be to become a person again. It wasn't just what Hydra had done to his mind, it was what they had done to his body. They had designed him to do one thing, and do it so perfectly that to do anything but fight felt… unnatural.

"Here you go, officers," Penny said at last, and even in the midst of his internal conflict, Bucky was gratified to see her charge them full price for their drinks.

They left without giving him a second look, and his heart finally started beating normally again. The adrenaline was still there, keying him up to do _something_ , but it was more manageable now that the looming threat had passed. To take his mind away from the moment, to distract his inner Soldier from thoughts of self-defence and violence, he pictured a gun in his mind, an old rifle like the one he'd seen in the Smithsonian display case. With his eyes closed, he took it apart and then put it back together, and was halfway through taking apart a sidearm when Penny appeared with his coffee.

"There ya go, black coffee, medium. Your breakfast won't be long, cook can whip up a stack of pancakes faster than you can say 'raspberry sauce.'

"Thanks." He picked up the coffee and blew across the top, forcing himself to look calm and relaxed. As long as he _pretended_ everything was fine, people would believe it. With a nod to the door the officers had just gone through, he asked, "More regulars?"

"Every morning, ten past eight, like clockwork." She grinned. "Why, you got something against cops?"

"What? No. I think cops are great. In fact, my brother's a cop. In Iowa. We grew up on a farm." He mentally patted himself on the back for his swift thinking. Family was good. Normal people had families. Nothing strange about that. Lots of people had brothers who were cops. Perhaps he should dream up a sister, too. What could she be? A veterinarian. Yes, Emily would be a vet. In Iowa. Where he had grown up. On a farm.

"Farm boy, huh? So what brings you all the way to the city?"

"Needed a change of pace. Somewhere with less cows."

"How'd it go with Tommy?"

He smiled, glad to be back onto more familiar territory. Dreaming up family was all well and good—should there be nieces and nephews, too?—but he suspected lying would become more difficult with each fabrication. What was it they said about tangled webs?

"It went great. He's starting me at ten o'clock. Just a trial, to begin with, but I think I'll like it there."

"Glad to hear it. I was hoping you'd stick around for a while." The look in her brown eyes made his stomach feel suddenly light, but he was saved from having to answer by a ringing bell on the food counter. "That'll be your breakfast."

It turned out the cook really did make the best pancakes on the east coast; they were worth every cent. For once, he didn't rush his food, he savoured every bite. It was almost nine o'clock by the time he'd finished, and the room had long since filled, thankfully with no more cops. Now, he could breath a little easier. He was just one amongst a crowd. He could get lost in a crowd as easily as he could in his own memories.

"Can I get you anything else?" Penny asked, when the breakfast rush had slowed enough to give her a moment to spare for him. "Another coffee?"

"Thanks, but I should be getting back." He gestured to the window, where Bing was waiting outside, the epitomé of canine patience. "I gotta feed my dog, or he'll start complaining."

Penny nodded in understanding. "I'm more of a cat person, myself. Dogs are nice and all, but cats have a certain independence I can identify with." A mischievous smile teased the corners of her mouth up. "Saw you reading the fliers, earlier. The pride parade's this weekend, you know. Are you planning on marching?"

"Uh, no. I'd feel out of place."

She laughed aloud. "I thought you might. No need to look so uncomfortable, though. You're not one of those ultra-conservative religious types, are you? I mean, I'm not sure what things are like out in Iowa, but New York's a pretty liberal place. I march with my friend, Kim, and her partner. She started out bi-curious a few years ago and decided she likes women a whole lot better than men."

"I'm not ultra-anything. But I don't do crowds well." He tried to inject some humour into his voice. "All those big open spaces in Iowa… being here, feels like the city's gonna fall down on me at any minute."

"Well, you can rest assured the city won't fall down." She frowned. "Unless aliens invade again, I guess. But you can't plan for everything, right?"

"Right."

He settled his bill—she gave him coffee on the house again, only charging him for the pancakes—and left with Bingo to find a pet store. They charged him what felt like a small fortune for some decent dog food, but seeing Bingo wolf it down when they got back to the apartment made him glad he'd spent extra. A dog could not live off unhealthy scraps forever.

At five to ten he walked into Schuler's Garage for his first day of true employment. Tommy greeted him and introduced him to Grant, a blond, floppy-haired man in his mid twenties whose hands were every bit as black as Tommy's.

"Grant's worked for me since he got outta high school," Tommy explained. "Thinks he's gonna work for Ferrari, one day."

"Sure am," Grant grinned. "And don't worry, Tommy, I'll tell 'em all about where I learnt the skills of the trade."

Tommy snorted, turning to gesture at a white car behind him. "This here's the Alfa I was telling you about. Two months old and not a single scratch on her. She'll be returned without a scratch, too, or the lady who owns her will have my balls in a vice."

"I'll be careful," Bucky agreed. "What's the problem?"

"According to the owner, _'lots of lights blinking on the dash when they shouldn't.'_ Not sure if she even bothered checking the manual. Might be something simple as a blown fuse, might be a complete electrical failure. Figuring that out and fixing it is your job." Tommy turned to the younger man. "Grant, you'll be working on that Ford I started on yesterday."

"The one with the blown head gasket?" Grant groaned.

"That's the one. I'm gonna head into the back and ring through next week's order. Don't wreck that Ford any further. And you," he pointed at Bucky, "not a scratch on that Alfa."

When Tommy disappeared through a door with a small, wonky 'office' plaque nailed to it, Bucky pointed to an abandoned old dust sheet in the corner of the garage, and Bingo obediently went off to lie down out of the way.

The Alfa was probably the cleanest, most expensive non-military vehicle Bucky had ever sat in. The interior was all smooth leather and chrome, and it had as many buttons and dials as a fighter jet. Cars were now more complicated to work than airplanes. The world had turned on its head.

It didn't take long for him to trace the electrical problem to a couple of loose wires that had become tangled and crossed. _Typical Italian engineering,_ he thought. After fixing the wiring problem, he joined Grant on the Ford, where a complete rebuild of the engine was underway.

"Would've been cheaper and faster to buy a new one," Grant explained. "But the guy who brought it in is an ass. We'll have her back here within another couple of years, some other major part shot to hell."

"At least it keeps you in a job."

"Heh, good point. Thank the Lord for idiots who don't know how to drive." Grant gave him a glance from the corner of his eye as he fiddled with a part under the hood. "So, you been in town long?"

"Couple of days. I'm still finding my feet."

"Well, lemme know if you need anything. I've lived in New York all my life, I'd be happy to point you in the right direction. For example, pride parade this weekend. You going?"

Bucky shook his head. "I don't like crowds."

"Pity. You wouldn't believe the number of hot chicks who march in that thing."

"Aren't you… um… not their type?" Grant seemed to be missing the whole point of the parade.

"It's called 'window shopping', my friend. The ages old practice of admiring the things you know you can never, ever have."

"Oh. Right."

Grant chuckled. "What, they don't have windows in Iowa?"

"I'm not even sure they have shopping."

"Well, welcome to New York. The whole city is basically one big window. But don't let it get you down. You'll soon get used to it."

"I hope so," he agreed. Because if he couldn't even fit in to the place where he had grown up, where in the world could he possibly go?

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: Thanks for tuning in to this week's chapter of Socially Awkward Soldier. I'm sure with a little TLC, and a lot of coffee, he'll get there eventually._

 _Join us next time for: Things used to be more Depressing. Bucky becomes Haley Joel Osment. Men Have Feelings Too. Ever hear the phrase,_ _'calm before the storm'? More Bingo!_


	6. Memory Lane

Running To You

 _6\. Memory Lane_

He strolled down the street as casually as he could, senses alert for danger, Bingo trotting at his heels. As he strolled, he realised something. This wasn't the New York he had grown up in. It wasn't 1940 anymore. The people he passed didn't meet his eyes and give a friendly nod; they were too busy talking on their cell-phones to pay him any attention. It wasn't a community anymore, but a collection of people all doing their own thing. It gave the Soldier an advantage. It made Bucky a little sad.

At the corner of the street, he ducked into an alley between two apartment blocks and looked out at the large, brown building on the opposite side of the road. At some point over the past seventy years, New York's city planners had decided another block of apartments was needed to house the city's rising population. The home where Bucky had grown up, the grey-fronted house with the tidy yard, with the little chimney that sat just slightly wonky, with the homely kitchen that always smelt like Mom's casserole, was gone. The whole row of houses was gone, replaced by the apartments and a garish 7-11.

He felt a tight pain in his chest. It was as if somebody had just taken a black permanent marker to his past and censored a whole chunk of it in one swipe, preventing the words from ever being read. He would never be able to step into his childhood home and search the rooms for hidden memories. The place where he'd had parents, and siblings, and a life, was no more.

Even the street had been forever altered. If he closed his eyes, he thought he could just about make out ghostly images of the way it was supposed to be. Of the sputtering, clunky motorcars, and the tram lines which ran down the centre of the road. Of the street-side vendors selling popcorn and chestnuts and hot-dogs. Of the wooden hand-carts pulled by men offering fresh fruits and vegetables. Of the labourers who tilted their caps, the bankers and businessmen with their plush leather briefcases, and the women who strolled arm-in-arm wearing modest dresses. Of the children who ran playing without fear through the streets in their own little neighbourhood gangs, dreaming up worlds far from the city.

The world had moved on, and he had seen only snapshots in time. His memories were a photo album of Kodak moments surrounded by empty space… an almost-clean page which should have been full of colour, and noise, and life. _Wake up, experience disorientation and pain, see some people, take some life, maybe have a bit of training in new weapons, get his arm upgraded, eat, fight, obey_ … the photographs did not make for a particularly attractive or interesting album, and he had no idea how to fill the pages with the pictures that had been stolen.

He walked for a while, trying to get some sense of the familiar. He came to a vendor and bought a small bag of popcorn which cost him nearly two bucks. It was far from the best popcorn he had ever tasted. Or maybe it was his own expectations that had changed. Back when he'd last been Bucky Barnes, popcorn bought from a vendor had been an occasional treat, an alternative to the dwindling supply of candy made too expensive by war-time sugar rationing, and it never cost more than ten cents for a bag. These days, people were spoilt for choice. What had been a treat seventy years ago had become commonplace, now. And some things were not only common, but expected. During the Great Depression, people protested over the cost of food and lack of jobs. Now, they rioted if they lost their internet connections for more than an hour.

The world was definitely a stranger place.

He made it to work just on time, slipping a pair of blue overalls on over his clothes, a few furtive glances thrown to the office door. Grant was already there, the upper half of his body buried under the hood of a red pickup truck.

"Tommy in yet?" Bucky asked, feigning breathlessness.

"Nope. Gone to a salvage yard in Queens. Overslept?"

"No, I went for a walk and lost track of time."

"Window shopping?" the blond man grinned.

"No. I bought popcorn."

"What, a man can't do both? It's called multitasking."

"I focus better on one thing at once."

"Well then, focus on this carburetor. Tommy expects it fixed by lunch time."

They fell into an easy flow. Grant was a congenial guy who spoke his mind and answered questions as easily as he breathed; a refreshing change from Hydra. He liked to chatter, but he never shirked his duties, somehow managing to combine work and talk without taking a break from either—often to much grumbling and eye-rolling from Tommy.

"How long have we known each other now?" Grant asked, as they finished the work on the carburetor.

Bucky shrugged. "A couple of weeks?"

"Right. So, I've been meaning to ask… what's with the glove? You're a big fan of Prince, or something?"

It was a question Bucky had been anticipating, and since _'a clandestine organisation of megalomaniacs captured me and experimented on me before forcing me to become an assassin for them'_ wasn't an appropriate response, he'd prepared something a little more believable.

"When I was a kid, my brother and I liked to go camping. In Iowa. One time, we had this campfire going, and he threw something on it… some sort of pressurised canister, or a jerry can, or something, I dunno. Whatever was in it, though, it exploded almost as soon as it hit the flames. I was sitting right by the fire, toasting marshmallows, and took the blast on my arm."

Grant winced in sympathy. "Ouch."

"Yeah. A couple of skin grafts later I had the use of my arm back, but it doesn't take much to hurt the skin on my hand. Doctor recommended I keep it covered up. Sun, chemicals, hell even the wrong sort of dust, all makes me come out in a rash. But I'm lucky… any bigger, and that explosion would have hit me in the face and chest. Probably would have got my brother, too."

"That's harsh, man. At least it doesn't seem to stop you doing stuff. I mean, you can take apart an engine even faster than me."

"You learn to compensate."

"I bet you do." Grant looked at the clock. "Tell you what, why don't you finish up here and I'll get us a coffee? Tommy won't be in for another half hour, and I think we've earned ourselves a break."

Bucky gave the younger man a grateful smile. "Coffee would be great." As long as it wasn't Starbucks.

Grant left him to it, and he released a small, relieved sigh. Another lie told, another tale swallowed. He was starting to get very good at lying. There were times when he even believed his own lies, when he tried to remember the farm he'd grown up on, and the brother who'd become a cop. When the truth came back, he always found it disappointing. Like he'd been cheated out of yet another life, the day that he'd been forced to become the secret fist of Hydra.

o - o - o - o - o

 _A heavy concussive force knocked him to the floor. A glancing blow, sending him flying. Instinct kicked in, and as he scrambled to his feet he reached for the only thing he could see; the circular shield lying beside him where he_ _'d fallen._

 _He picked it up and held it in front of his chest, just in time for the second blow. This one didn_ _'t glance; it hit him straight on and at full force. He fell backwards, the shield flying from his hands, and hit something hard. Again, instinct made him clutch at the hard thing, cold, sharp metal biting into his hands as the world rushed by._

" _Bucky!"_

 _He looked up as his name was cried, into the face of Captain America. An outstretched hand, a lifeline thrown too late_ _…_

 _Then he was slipping, falling, he fell for an eternity before hitting the ground. Pain tore through him, ripping through his body, and as he plunged into freezing cold, his mind shut down._

 _He emerged from the coldness and found himself looking at the face again. The face of the man who had tried to save him. A face that seemed shocked to see him. And at that open, shocked face, he pointed a gun and prepared to pull the trigger._

 _The world shifted, blurring in a rush, not forward this time, but back. Back to a crowd of people clustered around a boxing ring. Beside him was the face, but on the body of a smaller man. Still, there was no mistaking those eyes._

 _They watched from the crowd, cheering as one man threw a punch at another. Yelling their enthusiasm as the fight stretched on. He felt his nerves as taut as rubber, ready to snap. The excitement in the air was an intoxicant, filling the pores of every man present._

 _One of the fighters in the ring took a punch to the jaw, hit the deck and did not move again. The ref counted, then leapt to his feet, holding up the arm of the victor as the crowd went wild._

" _I don't believe it!" said Steve, the expression on his face one of shock, surprise and pleasure. He didn't even notice when he was roughly jostled aside. "We just saw the world lightweight champion KO'd in six. Buck, I'm glad it paid off, but that was a hell of a risk. Everything we had…"_

" _Nothing ventured," he grinned back at his friend, "nothing gained."_

 _The world blurred forward, and he found himself looking down at the man who had always been there, throughout all of his memories. A man whose face was bloody and bruised, his eyes filled with acceptance of his fate._

" _Then finish it," the man said. "Because I'm with you to the end of the line."_

 _And then Bucky was slipping, slipping, back into the cold_ _…_

He opened his eyes and sat up in bed, gasping for air, trying to make sense of all his mind had thrown at him. Rarely did his memories come so thick and fast, so jumbled together. On shaky legs, he got up and went to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water over his face. When he looked up into the mirror, into his own haunted eyes, for the first time since Hydra had found him he truly _believed_ that he was Bucky.

Hydra had made him into something different. Something less than a man. But there was still a man inside him, emerging as slowly and painfully as a butterfly from its chrysalis. The memories were there, hidden, perhaps even suppressed, but not erased. Time was what he needed, now. Time to let the memories come back, to relive them, to make them a part of him. When he had enough memories, he would be Bucky again, forever.

When the sun began to edge its way over the horizon, he threw on a pair of jogging pants and a sweatshirt and went for a run. Thanks to what Hydra had done to him, he didn't need to exercise to stay in shape, but running helped to clear his mind. He could focus on his breathing. On his muscles. On placing one foot in front of the other. He had to be careful not to run too fast, to keep to a pace any normal human could manage, but that too gave him something to focus on. When he ran, he didn't have to think.

Back at the motel room he showered and fed Bingo, then took the dog for a walk whilst he looked for a place to buy breakfast. _The Clock_ was his favourite haunt, but Penny liked to chat, and right now, he wasn't in the mood for chatting. It was Grant's day off, too, so the garage would be nice and quiet. Perhaps he could talk Tommy into letting him work on the bike. His boss was protective of 'his baby', but Bucky knew he'd earned enough trust to at least ask.

He found a shop selling 'healthy breakfast' and treated himself to something granola with something fruit and something yogurt, piled into a disposable cup. Then he found a shop selling donuts, and treated himself again, whilst Bingo whined about the lack of tidbits.

"This isn't healthy for you," he told the dog. "It's probably not even healthy for me. But what the hell. You only live once, or twice, or three times, right? Maybe I'm like a cat. Maybe I get nine lives. I wonder how many I've used up so far? One, when Hydra captured me. Two, when I fell. Three, when I became the Winter Soldier. Does that mean I'm on my fourth life? If so, I've only got five left, but that's five more than you've got. Sorry, but you'll have to stick with your kibble."

Bingo whined again, but Bucky ignored him. Man's best friend dog might be, but deep down, he was still just a dumb animal.

o - o - o - o - o

The dead came to him. Faces of the men and women he'd killed visited him when he slept. He heard their voices cry out, saw their final moments, their bleeding and broken bodies, lived their deaths over, and over, and over…

The first was a man who walked the streets of Moscow. He took the same route to work every morning. The same route home every night. He fell to a single gunshot, and his body was swallowed by the Moskva river.

There were two women, in Paris. High-priority targets. He shot the eldest and strangled the younger as she watched her companion bleed out on the sidewalk. He took their purses and left them both where they lay, the victims of a mugging gone wrong.

Two scientists in Hamburg found him next, their faces pale and bloody, their lab coats decorated in a violent spatter of scarlet red. They'd tried to cure something Hydra didn't want cured, and for that, they died.

Three small bodies, forever still in their beds with barely a mark upon them. A message sent, and received.

A man's body in a Venice canal.

A woman's corpse beneath the Tower of London.

Mexico, an important dig site, an entire archaeological team made to go missing.

Six people extirpated in one Washington hotel, the blame falling on the bag-boy.

Vietnam, countless villagers, countless US soldiers, the chaos playing to both sides.

A man and a woman in a car, the man pleading for his wife's life.

Three diplomats in France, their briefcases more important than their lives.

A small, dark-skinned body lying crumpled on the leaf-strewn ground.

The man in Cologne who liked his Starbucks so much.

A scientist whose flame-haired bodyguard couldn't protect him.

They weren't the only ones. Sometimes, names came with the faces, but there were those who had no names. Some had only descriptions, photographs glimpsed, camera footage watched. The nameless ones were the worst; their cold stares were silent accusations. He'd killed them, and hadn't even known who they were. It made them into something less than people, their deaths somehow more ignoble than the others.

It was worst on the nights following good days. When he went for breakfast and chatted for a while with Penny, enjoying the food and her attentive flirting, the dead came to him at night and demanded to know what right he had to feel any measure of happiness. A bar visited one evening with Grant after work was rewarded with a clamorous night of the dead chastising him for going about his life as if he hadn't taken so many away from others. Any measure of happiness and contentment he felt, no matter how small, was a mockery of their deaths, and in revenge for lives taken they allowed him no peace.

To try and stop them visiting him he forsook sleeping, but that only worked for so long; mental exhaustion eventually drove him to sleep, and then they came back louder than ever, rebuking him for denying them the right to be listened to by the one person who could still hear them. Even cutting down his visits to _The Clock_ didn't appease them. As much as he wanted to hate the restless dead, he knew that they were right. He was starting to remember who _he_ was, but still didn't know who _they_ were. If Bucky Barnes deserved to be remembered, and deserved to one day live again, how could he deny the people he had killed the smallest, most basic measure of respect?

After two weeks of near-sleepless exhaustion, he went to the Brooklyn Public Library and spent an entire Saturday researching the identities of the two women he'd killed in Paris. When he finally found them, he stared at the smiling monochrome faces published by the French tabloid. The date said _1954_ … his second mission, almost a decade after he'd been captured by Hydra. Had he come across the article in passing, he doubt he would have recognised the faces; he had never seen this side of them, before. When they came to him at night, their faces were twisted caricatures of the horror he had subjected them to.

The eldest had been a winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, and the younger her granddaughter who continued her work. The article went on to describe that work, as well as their family, and their lives. All of Paris had mourned for them, and the world, it claimed, was a dimmer place for their loss.

This was his legacy. Every life he had taken was a candle extinguished. Pierce had described his work as great, as a gift to mankind, but he saw it now for what it was… a curse he had inflicted across the generations. Hydra's perfect weapon had carved a swath through time like a grim reaper harvesting the best of humanity's wheat. In some cases, he'd cut down the seeds before they could even come to fruition; lives taken because of what _might have been._

That night, the Parisian women still came to him, but their faces were different. Gone were the expressions of horror, the deathly grimaces as they saw their own lives end. Now, they looked as they had in the newspaper; healthy. Full of potential. Full of life. They still came, and they still watched, but they stood in the background as the rest clamoured for attention. He had done enough to satisfy their spirits; he had remembered them. Their deaths had helped to open his eyes, and that was all they had ever wanted. For him to truly _see_.

When he woke the next morning, he knew what he had to do. He had to find them. All of them. Not just the nameless ones, but the others, too. He had to find them and learn about them. He had to learn about the lives he had taken and remember who they had been, and who they had left behind. Only when he had remembered them all would they finally let him be at peace. Only when he had paid the respect due to their memories would they allow Bucky Barnes to live again.

o - o - o - o - o

"Hey Alex!" Penny beamed a smile as he stepped into the café for breakfast three days after his research into the women he'd killed in Paris. "Haven't see you for a few days."

"Yeah, I've been pretty busy." He took a seat at his 'usual' table. Ever since his near-cop experience, he'd left it until eight-thirty before heading for breakfast at the café. He'd been lucky once, and he didn't think he was the type to successfully push what little luck was given to him.

"I'll say, you look beat. Rough week?"

"It was, but it's getting better," he smiled. "Stack of pancakes would really help with that. And a—"

"Black coffee. I know. You're a creature of habit."

Penny disappeared into the kitchen and he mused over her words. Was it good to have habits? They were something people generally had, but he suspected they could also be a liability. More than once he had exploited a victim's habits to get close enough strike, to find that perfect opportunity when their guard was down and they could be plucked like fruit ripe from the tree. But which was worse—having habits to be potentially exploited, or not having them at all?

He gave it some serious contemplation as he ate his pancakes with maple syrup and savoured the bittersweet coffee, but he just couldn't reach a conclusion. There were times when he sorely wished he had somebody to share his thoughts with. Penny and Grant and Tommy seemed like decent enough people, but if they found out who and what he was, they would want nothing to do with him, and it wasn't as if he had access to any other, impartial people. The sum of people in his life was small out of necessity. The less people he had to tell lies to, the less chance he had of slipping up.

When he downed the last dregs of coffee, Penny sank onto the chair opposite him and gave him a long, frank appraisal with her doe-brown eyes.

"I wanted to ask," she said at last, "if you like Offspring."

Bucky schooled his face to stillness and tried not to panic. "Well, they're okay I guess. Kinda loud at times, but I don't mind them when they're quieter. I suppose it's different when you have your own, though."

Penny laughed and playfully slapped his arm. "You're so funny! I love that dry sense of humour. You know I'm talking about the band, right? _The_ Offspring?"

"Of course," he agreed, and tried not to outwardly show any of the warm, panic-suppressing haze of relief now blanketing his mind. Unfortunately, this presented a new problem. He'd been forced to find opinions about many things over the past few weeks, and tried to adopt a middle-of-the-road fence-sitting approach wherever he could, but much of the time he was giving opinions about things he knew little about. One day soon, he suspected it would land him in hot water. "I don't mind them, but they're not top of my list of favourites."

Middle-of-the-road had served him well so far.

"Well, they're in town playing this weekend, and I've got floor-level tickets. I _was_ supposed to be going with my cousin Bianca, but when she bailed on me last night I immediately thought of you. Wanna come?"

A thousand excuses poured through his head. _My brother_ _'s visiting from Iowa. I still don't like crowds. Actually, I've seen them before and they weren't that good live. I'll be out of town next weekend. I have an appointment. I suffer tinnitus when exposed to loud noises. Shell shock. PTSD. Finally getting my hair cut. Got a bar-crawl planned with Grant. Working overtime, so busy._ Staring at Penny, though, the excuses died on his lips. They were weak, and she would have seen right through them. Besides, he was struck by the strong desire to not see disappointment in her eyes.

"Can I check my calendar and let you know?" he offered lamely. _Coward._

"Yeah, of course. It's no big if you can't, I just thought it would be nice to see you some place other than this."

"Right. Well. I'll check my schedule. I uh, I better get going. Tommy might decide to look for another mechanic if I'm late."

He managed to pay for his pancakes and escape the café without making any firm commitments, but his thoughts raced ahead of him as he made his way to work. Here, his memories failed him. Though he could close his eyes and picture Jane, and a few other women who'd lasted longer—or for just one dance—he couldn't recall more specific details about his escapades with the fairer sex, specifically how to discourage them from showing an interest. In fact, he had a feeling that he'd never done much discouraging at all, in the past.

And just what the hell kind of band named themselves _Offspring,_ anyway?

The last thing he wanted was to let Penny down, especially since her cousin had already done that so recently, but exposure, and the need to remain hidden, was always at the forefront of his mind. Penny's smiles for him had been getting warmer over the past few weeks, and sometimes she made sure her hand brushed his fingers as she gave him his coffee. He wasn't completely out of touch with reality—he had a TV in his motel room, after all—so he knew that compared to how women _could_ be these days, Penny was being fairly restrained, but women had expectations, too, and he was fairly certain that Penny's expectations were anything but platonic. Sweeping women off their feet was, ironically, easier when you didn't have an inexplicable cybernetic arm which could _literally_ sweep women off their feet. So far he'd been able to explain himself with lies and imaginary family, but he could not explain away a metal arm with some tale about a farming accident in Iowa. The world wasn't _that_ strange.

He could run. Get out of town. Find somewhere else to do his research into his own past and re-learn how to be a person. It wasn't as if he had commitments tying him down. Bingo would go with him, of course, and Tommy would find a replacement grease-monkey easily enough. If he left, he wouldn't need to make up an excuse and watch sadness creep over Penny's face.

If he ran, though, he would never stop running. Where there was one Penny, there would probably be more. He couldn't bolt every time a woman smiled at him; it wasn't practical. He needed to find some way to deal with this. Dealing with things was part of being a person, and that was what he was now; a person.

At the garage, Tommy was in the office taking bookings, and Grant was throwing on his overalls when Bucky arrived. Work was booming; New York had a lot more cars in it today than it had the last time he'd been there, and sooner or later, everything broke. On busy days, Tommy even grumbled that he wished he had a garage twice as big, and with three times as many staff.

"Hey pal, what's up?" Grant greeted him. "Hope you had a big breakfast this morning, 'cos it looks like Tommy's running us ragged again."

"Better too much work than not enough."

"True enough."

Bucky studied his first real friend in seventy years as they went to work on the first two cars booked in for the day. Grant seemed a pretty worldly guy, and so far his advice had never led Bucky astray. Perhaps he could get an outsider's view on his Penny problems.

"You know much about women?" he asked.

Grant nodded. "Women are like cars. They all have the same basic shape, but some run on gas, others on diesel, some are electric or hybrid… and they never break down in quite the same way." He stopped to scratch the side of his nose, leaving a smear of grease on his cheek. "One thing I've noticed is that your basic work-horse is pretty straightforward. When you start getting into your high-performance sports cars, however, that's when more shit can go wrong, and it goes wrong faster, too. Like you're not just plodding along at forty, you're doing eighty down the main drag when suddenly you've lost control. Then you get out and you're like, _'shit, how did I not see that coming?'_."

"But do you know much about women when you're _not_ using cars as an allegory for them?"

"About as much as the next guy, I guess. Why, you found something you like while window shopping?" Grant's eyebrows waggled suggestively. "Looking to go for a test drive and wanna know the best roads to drive on?"

"No, I need to know the best way to turn a woman down without hurting her feelings."

"Huh." Grant paused to lean against the side of the Honda he was working on, face deep in thoughtful speculation. "Not really my area of expertise, I'm afraid. Why'd you wanna turn a woman down, anyway? She been in one too many crashes? Need extensive repair work doing? Something that a paint job won't fix?"

"It's complicated," Bucky sighed.

"Then uncomplicate it for me. Let's get some context; this girl have a name?"

"Penny."

Grant very nearly dropped his spanner as he pushed himself up off the car. "Wait, not Penny from _The Clock_?!"

"You know her?"

"Not as well as you know her, apparently, and not half as much as I'd like to." There was just a little envy in Grant's voice. "Dude, she is one smoking fox."

"I don't think I've ever seen her smoke."

"No, I mean she's hot. That's one window I don't mind shopping in," Grant grinned. "So, she asked you out?"

Bucky nodded. "To a concert. Offspring." Grant pulled his face. "You know them?"

"They were alright back in the day, but they've gotten kinda stale lately. They've been around forever, though, I'm surprised you haven't heard of them even out in corn-country."

"Define 'forever'."

"I dunno. Since the early '90s maybe?"

"Huh." Just when he thought he was finally getting used to the world, something invariably happened to make him feel really, really old and remind him just how far he still had to go.

"So, why'd'ya wanna turn her down?"

"That's the complicated bit. Honestly? I've kinda got a lot going on in my head. Things I need to work through. I came to New York to give myself the space to do that, and I just feel like… I dunno, like I'm not ready for more. Not yet." Besides, if the dead people complained at him for merely having _breakfast_ in Penny's company, how much more irate would it make them if he went to a concert with her?

"Well, you should probably get your head examined, there must be something seriously wrong with it. Penny! From _The Clock!_ Sometimes I really don't get what women see in you dark, brooding, David Boreanaz types." Grant held up both hands before Bucky could tell him he didn't understand the reference. "Okay, I lie, I totally get it, I'm not blind. But I think it's unfair. Hmm." One eyebrow lifted. "If you're turning her down, do you think she'd wanna go to the concert with me instead?"

"I don't know. But could we focus on my problem for the moment?"

"You mean the problem other than needing your head examining? Alright. I don't think there's any way to turn somebody down without disappointing them. Not really. And if this was some other chick, I'd say just be careful you don't make her think it's anything to do with her. Some women can be sensitive about that. But Penny's gotta know how hot she is, so I don't think that's gonna be a problem here. Personally, I think you're just going to have to bite the bullet and tell her the truth. Tell it like you told me. If she's worth it, she'll understand, and she might even wait for you to work past some of those obviously deep, complex and very worrying issues you're having right now."

"I suppose the truth is the best way," he admitted. "I just wish I knew how she'd react."

"If she seems upset, tell her your handsome grease-monkey colleague would be more than happy to escort her to the concert."

"I'll keep it in mind. Thanks, Grant."

"No problem, pal. I'm happy to share any pearls of wisdom. But I gotta ask; why do you need my advice on this one? I would've thought a guy like you would be beating them off with a stick. You must've had a squeeze or two at least, back in Iowa."

"It's been a while," he said truthfully. If his flashes of memory were correct, the last time he'd been on a date was right before he shipped off for the front lines in 1943. "The girls in, uh, Iowa, aren't the same as the girls in New York. But what about you? How'd you manage to stay single so far?"

"Up until a couple of years ago, I wasn't." A sad smile slid across Grant's face, filling his eyes. "Stacey. She was the love of my life. We were childhood sweethearts. I had our whole future planned out… didn't realise until it was too late that my idea of the future wasn't hers."

"Let me guess… she wanted a white picket fence with two kids and a dog, and you wanted to travel the world working for Ferrari?"

Grant scoffed. "Not exactly. I wanted that fence, the kids, the dog. I'd even picked out their names. Not the dog; the kids. I was gonna be the most amazing dad. None of that 'park the brats in front of a PlayStation and call it parenting' rubbish you see, I was going to do it right. My daughter was going to grow up to be an awesome mechanic. But… Stacey, she said a family would hold her back. We were twenty one, and she didn't want to be a stay-at-home mom, or work in a grocery store to help put food on the table. She wanted a career; the fence, the kids, the dog… they would come later. Much, much later. Heh, always was smarter than me. Grade A student throughout high-school and college. She's a high-flying lawyer, now. Probably makes six times what I do in my job. Sometimes you want life to hand you some lemons, and all you get is sour grapes. Can't make anything with those."

"I'm sorry, man. That sounds harsh." Harsh and unfair. Life was cruel, it seemed, even to regular people who hadn't been genetically and bionically enhanced by Hydra. "But there's gotta be more out there for you than window shopping."

"No doubt," Grant agreed with a quick nod. "You ever been in a fight?"

"Once or twice," he admitted reluctantly.

"Ever been knocked out?"

"Knocking each other out is practically a sport, in Iowa."

"Well, you know how it is. Sometimes you go down and you spring right back up on your feet, ready to take another hit. But sometimes it takes you longer to get back up. A lot longer. And even when the bruise finally disappears, you're not sure if you're ready to be hit like that again."

"I know exactly what you mean," Bucky smiled.

"Hey, ladies," said Tommy, standing in the open door from the office with his arms folded across his chest, "I'm running a garage here, not a female empowerment circle. Fix cars now and talk about your feelings later."

Grant rolled his eyes at Bucky, but they both got back to work, and with a satisfied grunt, Tommy returned to the office.

o - o - o - o - o

The next morning, Bucky took Grant's advice. He ordered coffee and a bagel to go, and told Penny exactly what he'd told his friend. He explained that he had a lot going on inside his head, that he'd come to New York to figure things out, and that he needed to get himself on his feet and walking without help before he could even think about wading back into an active social life.

Penny was sympathetic. She told him that she understood, and that he knew where to find her if he ever wanted to talk. But she charged him full price for the coffee, and he didn't bother asking if she'd started drinking it herself.

Outside, he called Bingo to heel and decided to go for a pre-work stroll along the boardwalk to stretch his legs and give the dog a change of scenery.

The cool sea breeze tugged at his hair, bringing with it the scent of the harbour, the salty brine of the ocean and a dim memory of watching huge ships make their way slowly into the bay and up the Hudson. At a section of wall near the entrance to the Aquarium, he stopped to finish the last of his breakfast and to look out across the harbour. This place wasn't his home. Not really. It had changed too much. But more than that, the people who had made it home were gone. His family, his friends, the pretty girls he'd danced with… without them, New York was just a city. A pretty nice city, for the most part, but it wasn't where he truly belonged. He wasn't sure if there was _anywhere_ he belonged, now.

But that was okay, because he would work on remembering the people he killed, and then he would be Bucky again. Maybe it wouldn't be the same Bucky as the one who had lived here before. He didn't know if he could go all the way back, because the city had changed, and the people had changed, and he had changed too. But maybe he could be a different Bucky. A blending of the old and the new.

He crouched down in front of Bingo and took the dog's long head in his hands, looking into the canine eyes. "Y'know, boy… I think I'm going to be okay. It might take a while. Hell, it might even take years. But one day, I'm going to be alright."

Bingo's only response was a heavy pant and a lick on the hand, but that was dogs for you.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: *cue ominous music*_


	7. Requiem

Running To You

 _7\. Requiem_

 _He ran down the sidewalk, lunch bag tucked beneath his arm, and tried not to think about Mrs Montgomery and her impatient, tapping foot. His homeroom teacher counted tardiness a cardinal sin, and gave only a minute_ _'s grace period before taking role. Behind him, Mary-Ann was gasping for air as she tried to keep up on her shorter legs; her homeroom teacher had been known to reminisce about the good old days before paddling was banned in the city, and his students often went to bed having nightmares about what fate would await them if corporal punishment was ever brought back. 'Spare the lashings, spoil the child,' he said. No wonder he was the most hated teacher in school._

 _"Bucky, wait, I can't run any faster!" his sister panted._

 _He slowed to take her hand, then pulled her along the pavement. As they reached the street corner, he heard the school bell ring and suppressed the groan that tried to escape his lips. With a quick check of the road, they crossed the street and dashed into the playground just as the last of the students were filing in through the main doors._

 _The sound of rattling chains caught Bucky_ _'s attention, and he saw two boys, Sammy and Danny Cavanagh, brothers from the third and fourth year, advance on another kid they'd just pushed into one of the playground swings. Bucky hesitated. If he was quick, he might just make the grace period and avoid detention, but his dad always said it was better to do wrong for doing right than to do right by doing wrong—and that two against one wasn't a fair fight in any arena._

 _"Go to class," he said, pushing his sister towards the front doors._

 _"But—"_

 _"Mom said you're to listen to me at school. Go, or you'll be late."_

 _Mary-Ann cast him a worried glance as she climbed the steps, but he barely noticed it; his focus was already on the two brothers and their victim._

" _Hand it over, runt," the eldest, Danny, said, making a grab for a brown paper bag carried by his victim. Danny was a hulking brute of a boy, but he didn't like a fair fight. The kids he picked on were invariably younger and smaller._

 _The other boy hugged the bag closer to his chest and gave a defiant glare. Danny leapt forward and managed to get his fingers on the bag, but the other boy struggled to hold on. The pair went tumbling onto the concrete in a scrambling melee of arms and legs. The brown paper bag, finally deciding it had had enough, tore open spilling two sandwiches, an apple and a chocolate bar onto the floor. The apple rolled towards Bucky, who scooped it up as he reached the trio._

 _"Hey, Cavanagh," he said, "don't you think you're fat enough already? Maybe you should start eating less, instead of stealing other peoples' lunches."_

 _"Stay out of this, Barnes, it's none of your business," Danny growled from the floor. He was trying to grab the chocolate bar, but the other kid was making a decent effort at keeping him away. The second Cavanagh brother, Sammy, stepped forward and looked for a moment like he might be considering stopping Bucky… then he seemed to think better of it, and moved aside. Smaller and younger than his brother, he'd also inherited more brains. In his weaselly mind, he could clearly see an apple and a chocolate bar were not worth the effort of a sustained scuffle. Not when the school bell had already sounded._

 _"I'm making it my business," he replied._

 _Cavanagh leapt to his feet and stood facing him. For a long moment there was nothing but birdsong, and Cavanagh_ _'s whistling nose-breathing. Then, Danny gave an angry snarl and barged past him, barely giving him time to step out of the way. The two brothers trotted off to the door of the school, their victim already forgotten._

 _Bucky looked down at the boy who was nursing a grazed arm and a broken chocolate bar. He offered his hand; the boy eyed it warily for a moment as if expecting a trick, and finally took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. As he did, Bucky finally put a name to the pale face, slightly large nose and watery blue eyes._

 _"You're that new kid, right?" Bucky asked, handing over the bruised apple. "Steven Rogers?"_

 _"Steve," the new kid corrected with a fiery scowl. "And I didn't ask for your help."_

 _"No need to ask when jerks like the Cavanaghs are involved. Now that they know you'll put up a fight, they'll try sneaking around behind you next time. You got someone to watch your back?"_

 _Steve lifted his chin, and it was a wonder his head didn_ _'t wobble right off his matchstick neck. "I can watch my own back."_

 _"How? You got a mirror in that paper bag?"_

 _"Look, James—it's James, right?"_

 _He pulled his face._ _"Bucky. Not even my mom calls me James."_

" _Okay, Bucky, I appreciate what you did, but I can fight my own battles. I don't hide behind anyone."_

 _"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "But you didn't look like you were hiding behind anything."_

 _They missed the grace period. He knew it as soon as they stepped into the empty hall. When they reached the fourth-grade homeroom, Mrs Montgomery gave them both a frosty glare._

 _"Barnes, Rogers, you've just earned yourselves an after-school session of scraping gum from underneath the tables in 7E."_

 _Bucky groaned silently as he took his seat. No matter how many kids spent their detention sessions cleaning those desks, the seventh-graders managed to get them filthy again within twenty four hours. There was no point trying to explain what had happened to Mrs Montgomery, though. She had a saying:_ _'No 'buts' in my classroom except butts on seats.' He'd only earn himself another detention tomorrow for his trouble._

When Bucky opened his eyes, his first thought was that his mom was going to kill him for getting detention and being late home with Mary-Ann. Then he remembered his mom was dead, and Mary-Ann too, and that he wasn't actually nine years old. The realisation was both a relief, and a disappointment. Everything had seemed so much simpler, when he was nine years old; even standing up to bullies.

Sitting up in bed, he brushed his hair back out of his face and thought back to the dream. It was rare for his dreams to be memories; usually his nights were filled with the dead, and memories left to the daytime realm, where they would come trickling in like raindrops down a window, triggered by the most innocuous of things.

Part of him wanted to go back to sleep, to return to the dream and let it play out. It had finished on a cliffhanger, like those terrible daytime soaps; just how _had_ Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes become friends, when Steve seemed so fiercely determined to do everything alone? Clearly there was more than his unconscious mind was recalling… but he didn't have the luxury of a day spent in bed. He was a real person, now. That meant he had a job to get to.

He lingered in the shower, enjoying the warmth of the water, then stood in front of the mirror above the sink to study his reflection. Sometimes he expected to look at it and see the old Bucky looking back at him, the one from the museum, clean-shaven and short-haired. It wouldn't take much to look like him… a hair-cut, a decent razor… but that was about as far back as he could go. There was a haunted look in his reflection's eyes that he suspected might never fade. He couldn't do anything about the metal arm, and the old Bucky, whilst by no means scrawny, didn't have the same super-serum enhanced strength and musculature that he did now. But maybe this change was fitting. He'd been through a lot, if his memories and the dead people could be believed. He'd need to be strong, to get his life back. Strength on the outside could be strength on the inside.

He switched the TV on, listening to the news as he dressed. No longer did he fear hearing his own name mentioned on it… if anybody was looking for him, they wouldn't announce it to the world. If it ever reached the point where he became news, he doubted he'd be in a position to actually hear it.

The news today was kinda boring. Corruption, scandal, and a rabbit that could balance things on its head. Nothing that affected the Winter Soldier, or Bucky from New York City, or even Alex the mechanic from Iowa.

"It's a pretty lame trick, anyway," he said aloud. "Rabbits are pretty dumb, it probably doesn't even realise it has things on its head. C'mon boy, let's go get some breakfast."

For once, Bingo did not give a whine of response. Bucky looked down at the floor beside his bed. It was empty.

"Bingo? Where are you, boy? I hope you're not drinking from the toilet again."

Bingo wasn't drinking from the toilet. He wasn't in the bathroom at all. He wasn't under the bed, in the closet or hiding behind the small table and chair in the corner of the room. A small measure of panic rising within his gut, Bucky went to the window. He left it open at nights because the room's air conditioning didn't work properly, and because if anybody was stupid enough to try and sneak into his room to steal, they would get a fist full of steel. Bingo liked to sit by the window sometimes, letting the cool breeze blow his ears around his face. Maybe he'd climbed up and fallen out. Maybe he'd jumped, not realising he wouldn't be able to get back in.

The dog wasn't lying injured on the ground beneath the window, which was a relief, but that didn't mean he hadn't jumped out and then wandered off to try and find a way inside. He was a pretty street-wise dog, he never stepped into the road unless Bucky was crossing it, but he could have been been picked up by animal control.

Bucky pulled on his boots, fastened them hastily and grabbed his coat. He went straight to the motel office, where the manager's wife was taking a booking over the phone, her Russian heavy with a St. Petersburg lilt. He tried not to come across as impatient whilst she finished her conversation, but the way she glared at his fingers drumming on the counter told him he wasn't being very successful. He opened his mouth as soon as she put the phone down, but she managed to beat him.

"Yes? What can I do for you? Have you come to pay for another week?"

"I'll have another week's payment tomorrow," he assured her. Friday was pay-day at Tommy's. "I was just wondering if anybody has complained about a dog around here."

"We do not allow pets," she informed him coolly.

"I know. It's just, I heard a dog whining outside my window… it kept me awake practically all night—"

"No discounts for missed sleep. If you don't want to be kept awake by the city, keep your window closed."

He didn't bother telling her how poor the air conditioning was; she already knew. It would take more than his complaints to make the manager spring for a new system.

"I wasn't looking for a discount. I just wanted to know if anybody else had mentioned the dog, or knows why it might be hanging around."

"Sorry, this is the first I've heard of it." She ran her blue eyes over him, and he suddenly felt like a pig being weighed up for market. "You've been in the city for several weeks now; when are you going to get a place of your own?"

"Why do you care? Isn't it better business, to have regular customers?"

She gave a sarcastic snort. "I have a niece. A nice girl. Very pretty. A little shy. She needs a respectable man in her life."

"Well, I'm not a respectable man."

"That much is obvious. You live in a motel. And not a high class motel, either. If dogs whining outside your window are the only thing keeping you awake at nights, you must be a light sleeper! But you have a job, a steady income, and a pretty face. When you've become a respectable man with his own apartment, come and see me and I'll introduce you to my niece."

"I'll keep that in mind." He paused by the door and looked back at the stern matron. "And by the way, your air conditioning system is complete garbage."

It was time to move on. First he would find Bingo, then he would find another motel. One with better aircon. He should have done it weeks ago. Trees might put down roots, but he was not a tree. He was a soldier, and he needed to be able to move at a moment's notice, like a… a… He couldn't think of an appropriate analogy. His thoughts were too full of his missing dog.

He went first to _The Clock,_ but didn't go inside. He hadn't been in since turning down Penny. Bingo wasn't outside the window, so there was no point going in. He told himself it was because it would have been a waste of time, and not because he wanted to avoid her like a coward. Gun fights? Knife fights? Fist fights? Sure, no problem. But an angry, possibly vengeful woman? They said hell had no fury like that.

When _The Clock_ turned out to be a bust, he checked out some of his alternative haunts. Bingo wasn't at the donut shop, nor the Laundromat, not the pet store or the 7-11. There was only one other place he could be.

Tommy and Grant were busy working on a Buick, a long, wide, elegant car that looked like it would have been right at home in the New York Bucky had grown up in.

"You're late," Tommy growled. "But I'll let you off, 'cos I'm in a good mood."

"Check her out," Grant said, a boyish grin appearing on his face as he spread his arms to encompass the whole width of the gleaming car. "A genuine, original, 1947 Buick Roadmaster in _mint_ condition. Probably the oldest thing you'll ever see in this garage."

Bucky didn't bother correcting him. "If it's in mint condition, what's it doing here?"

"She belongs to a friend," said Tommy. "I'm giving her some minor tweaks. You two get to polish her after, inside and out. She's going to a vintage motor show the day after tomorrow and my friend wants to tell people that they could eat their dinner off her, if it weren't such a heinous crime to even consider such a thing."

"Okay. But first… have you seen my dog? I can't find him anywhere."

"You have a dog?" Grant asked. "Since when?"

"Since forever. You've seen him loads of times."

A puzzled frown pulled Grant's brows over his eyes. "Sorry Alex, but I've never seen your dog even once."

"Are you kidding me? He comes to work with me every day. He goes and lies in that corner until I'm done." He gestured at the empty corner, where an old dust sheet lay. The dust sheet that Bingo loved to curl up on. Where he lay all day watching Bucky and Grant chat, and work, and drink coffee until Tommy nagged at them to pick up the pace.

Grant glanced to Tommy in what looked like a silent call for backup.

"Sorry kid." Tommy shook his greying head of hair. "I don't recall ever seeing a dog with you."

"You can't have not seen him. He's this big, and he's a sort of blackish grey..." Bucky stopped approximating Bingo's size with his hands when he noticed both men watching him as if he was mad. But how was he the mad one? At least he'd noticed his own damn dog.

"Where are you going?" Tommy called, as Bucky turned and left the garage.

"To find my dog!"

If there was a response, he didn't hear it; he was too busy jogging down the streets, eyes peeled for a splash of sooty-grey fur. When his feet brought him to _The Clock_ , he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside. He would brave hell's fury, for Bingo.

Penny looked up when he entered. She gave him a smile, but it was the usual-customer smile; as friendly as it needed to be, and not a shade warmer.

"Hello, stranger," she said. "I was beginning to think maybe you'd skipped town."

"Just very busy," he assured her.

"What'll it be? Coffee to go?"

"Not today. Actually, I'm looking for my dog. Can't find him anywhere, and I'm worried he might have got lost. Have you seen him hanging around?"

"No, sorry. Did you check the nearest dog pound?"

"Not yet. It's my next port of call. Thanks." He hesitated, hovering between leaving right away and asking the question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to. But he had to know. "You, uh, you know what my dog looks like, right?"

Penny shrugged as she pulled a cup of coffee for someone else. "Four legs, a head, wagging tail? I wish I could help, Alex, but I haven't seen any dogs today."

"But you're seen him before," he insisted. "When I've been here in the past."

"No, sorry. We wouldn't allow dogs in here. Hygiene and all that."

"He sits outside the window while I have breakfast." The blank look on her face made his gut twist with something. It might have been the first stirrings of anger. "He was with me the first day I ate here. Two cops came in, like clockwork. I was reading the gay pride pamphlet. You asked me if I wanted anything else and I told you I had to go and feed my dog. I even pointed right at him."

"Oh, I thought you were gesturing in general. You know, an 'I have to go now' sort of gesture. I'm really sorry, Alex. You've told me about your dog, but I've never seen him." The expression in her brown eyes grew more concerned, and she reached out to lay a hand on his arm. "Look, you told me you've got a lot on your mind. Maybe you should talk to somebody. A professional, I mean."

He scowled at her and pulled his arm away from her touch. "I'm not crazy. I didn't imagine my dog. He's real. His name is Bingo and he likes being fed unhealthy shit he really shouldn't eat. I sneak him into my motel room every night. I buy him kibble. What happens to the kibble? I sure as hell don't eat it."

"Alex—"

"Forget it. I'll find him myself."

It was a conspiracy. It had to be. Grant had the hots for Penny. Penny wanted to get back at him for turning her down. Together, they'd come up with a plan to make him think he was crazy by pretending Bingo didn't exist. Tommy was in on it too. Maybe they'd even dognapped Bingo together. They thought it was funny, to kick a man when he was down.

But then… the hotel manager had never caught him in the act of sneaking Bingo in. Nor had the manager's wife, and she was particularly nosy. He'd thought it was just because he was good at being sneaky…

He shook his head. Thinking this was a conspiracy was _definitely_ crazy, and he was certain crazy he was not. But he hadn't nearly drowned to pull an imaginary dog from the river. He hadn't been feeding an imaginary dog real kibble. And he certainly hadn't spent the past few weeks _talking_ to an imaginary dog, because that was even worse than talking to the imaginary person in your head.

Bingo was real. He'd been picked up by the dog warden. Bucky would get him back, then he'd prove to Grant, and Tommy, and especially to Penny, that he was just as sane as everybody else.

o - o - o - o - o

 _The classroom had emptied as soon as the final bell rang. Bucky and his parter-in-crime had been given buckets of warm, soapy water and metal scrapers. Chewing gum removal was a long, slow, sticky process. When the teachers had realised how much the kids hated it, they_ _'d stopped assigning lines on the blackboard as a detention activity and given this task instead._

 _"You have to do this in your old school?" Bucky asked, as he began working on the front row. Steve merely shook his head. "Why'd you transfer?"_

 _"I just moved to this area from the other side of Brooklyn. Mom thought it would be good if I had a new school, as well as a new home."_

 _"Do you miss your friends?"_

 _Steve shrugged. Did that mean he didn_ _'t miss them? Didn't have them? Didn't care one way or the other? The boy's reluctance to talk was vexing, because Bucky could get anyone to talk._

 _"Well," Bucky continued, more determined now to get his partner-in-crime talking more freely, "you'll probably like it here. As long as you don't get any more detentions. Every Friday, we get to use the baseball field over at the high-school."_

 _"You like baseball?"_

 _"I'm gonna be the world's best pitcher, when I grow up," Bucky grinned proudly. Baseball. This was a good start. Everyone loved talking about baseball. "What's your favourite position?"_

 _"Oh, I only like to watch. I'm not very good at playing."_

 _"Don't you play catch with your dad?"_

 _Steve shook his head again and attacked a blob of gum under the desk he was working on with particular vigour._ _"My dad died before I was born. It's just me and Mom."_

 _Way to go, big-mouth._ _"Oh. Sorry. Accident?"_

 _"War. His platoon was stationed in France."_

 _"Geez, that's crummy." A quick change of subject was in order. "What does your mom do?"_

 _"She's a nurse." Steve's gum finally gave up the will to cling on, and he dropped it into the bucket. "What about your folks?"_

 _"Well, my dad used to be in the army," Bucky said. "But now he's out, he runs a boxing club down town. My mom was a secretary in a law firm, but she quit to have my little brother, Charlie. He's just turned one. My sister, Mary-Ann, just started second grade."_

 _"Must be nice, being part of a big family." There was a wistful sort of look in Steve's watery eyes. Maybe that was why he wanted to do everything alone. Maybe he was just used to it. The thought made Bucky feel kinda sorry for the boy. He couldn't imagine a life with only his mom. No Dad, no Mary-Ann, no Charlie… even thinking about it made his chest constrict._

 _"Yeah, I guess it is," Bucky told him. "But I can't wait until Charlie gets a bit older and stops puking everywhere." Steve laughed at the mental image. "Mom says when Charlie turns six, I can take him down to the baseball field and teach him how to play. Dad said he wants his own baseball team… he even has Mary-Ann catching when we play for practice." Suddenly, Bucky had a brilliant idea. Steve didn't have any brothers or sisters or friends, but Bucky had plenty. And Mom always said it was good to share what you had with those who had less. "Hey, why don't you come play with us at weekend? We can make you catcher and put Mary-Ann in center field."_

 _"I told you, I'm not very good at playing."_

 _"You can't be any worse than Mary-Ann." He looked at Steve, and could see a million excuses flickering across his face. "C'mon, you got anything better to be doing on a Saturday morning?"_

 _"Unpacking."_

 _"Well, what if I help you unpack? Then it's done twice as fast. Where'd you move to?" he asked, before Steve could object._

 _"80th Street."_

 _"Perfect," Bucky grinned. "That's just a couple of blocks away."_

 _"Look, it's like I said, I don't need your help—"_

 _"I'd only be helping you so that you can help me," he countered, pleased with his twist in logic. "Baseball with four is more fun than with three."_

 _Steve immediately threw out another protest._ _"Don't you have other friends you can get to play ball?"_

 _"I guess. But Mitch's mom won't let him come down to the field without her, and Davey's so fat that he hates running and he can't catch to save his life. Ty's a pretty good batter but he has to take his little brother everywhere with him, and the kid does nothing but whine." He could see Steve teetering, so decided to take the initiative before he could object. "Great! Then it's settled. Think of it this way; if you can keep hold of a ball as well as you keep hold of your lunch bag, you'll make a great catcher one day."_

"Alex. Alex. Wake up, son."

Bucky's eyes flickered open to the sight of Tommy's craggy face. For a moment he wondered what Tommy was doing in his motel room, and why his pillow was so uncomfortable. Then he realised he'd fallen asleep in the front of a Beamer, his forehead resting against the hard leather steering wheel. He groaned and pushed himself up. At least he hadn't been drooling.

"Wha?" he mumbled, as the clouds of tiredness and traces of his dream-classroom fogged his mind.

"Geez, Alex, when was the last time you slept?"

Bucky shook his head. Days? A week? Who was even counting? He spent every moment that he wasn't at work looking for Bingo. He'd done a tour of the dog pounds and found nothing. He'd visited almost every veterinary surgery in Brooklyn, in case anybody had brought in an injured stray dog. He'd even considered putting up 'missing' posters, before he realised he had no pictures of Bingo, and no phone number to put on any posters, and no reward to offer for a found dog. Here he was trying to be a real person, and he couldn't even do pet ownership right.

"I'm sorry, Tommy. I must've just dozed off."

"No dozing on my dime," his boss warned. "Look, I know how much that dog meant to you, but at some point you're going to have to let go and accept the fact that he's not coming back. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? Go for a walk. Clear your head. Have a beer. Watch 'All Dogs Go To Heaven.' And for Godssake son, get some sleep. Do I have to give you the 'mistakes equals lawsuits' speech again?"

"No. I'll finish up for today and then I promise I'll get some sleep."

"Alright. But pay attention to what you're doing. I don't accept tiredness as an excuse for making mistakes."

"Right."

After work, he took to wandering again, and wondered whether this was his fault. He'd threatened to leave Bingo behind plenty of times. Threatened to give him away. Sometimes fed him things that weren't good for him. He'd taken his canine companion for granted, and now Bingo had been taken away, just like everything else in Bucky's life.

Maybe Bingo wasn't in trouble. Maybe the dog had found himself a new owner. A nice family with a bunch of kids, and all the old bones he could chew. Yeah, that sounded about right. But even if that were true, Bucky still had to find him. Not to prove to himself that the dog was fine, but to prove to others that he actually existed.

By the time the sun fully set, he'd walked all the way out to Prospect Park. It was a place popular with dog walkers. Maybe Bingo's new owners would bring him out here for a ramble across the fields.

He saw poodles and labs, shepherds and collies, dogs that he had no names for, and mutts which couldn't be named. But there were no Bingo-looking dogs in Prospect Park. He felt the flames of hope in his chest grow dimmer, and swiftly fanned them back to life. Just because Bingo wasn't here now, didn't mean he hadn't been before, or wouldn't be again. And there were plenty more parks in the city. He would just have to visit them all.

A growl from his stomach reminded him it had been at least a couple of days since he'd last eaten. He had to keep up his strength to keep up the search, so he stopped at a Chinese takeaway on the way back to his motel. Everything on the glaringly bright menu looked exotic and complicated, like the coffee board in _The Clock_.

"None of your dishes are made of dog meat, are they?" he asked the man behind the counter.

They wouldn't serve him, after that, so he went and got a pizza instead, a rubbery thing that probably didn't have any meat at all on it, much less dog meat. It tasted like old shoe, but it was fuel for his body, and right now that was all he needed. Fuel to keep going, so that he could prove how perfectly sane he was.

He reached the motel at stupid o'clock in the morning, kicked off his boots, tossed his jacket onto the chair, and opened the window. Sinking down onto the uncomfortable bed, he thought back to river he'd pulled Bingo from. It hadn't been easy, to get the dog out of the current, and he definitely wouldn't have taken the dip for an imaginary dog. Sure, his mind might be conjuring up images and voices of the dead, but they had been actual, real, living people, before he'd killed them. Just like Bingo was an actual, real, living dog. Even a guilty mind did not conjure up fictitious animals. That much he was sure of.

He felt sleep clawing at his mind, felt a blanket of warmth draped over his thoughts, but was too tired to fight it. Still dressed in his day clothes, and full of slowly digesting rubbery pizza, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

o - o - o - o - o

 _He sat on the edge of the harbour wall, his legs dangling over the side. Ten feet or more below, the blackness of the water seemed to speak to the emptiness in his chest. His fingers groped absently for a stone, and when they found one, he pulled back his arm and hurled the small rock. It hit the wooden mooring post out in the harbour with a_ _'plink', and dropped into the water._

 _The crunch of gravel underfoot was the first indication he had that he wasn_ _'t alone, but he didn't turn around at the sound. Though the tears had stopped a while ago, and his eyes were finally dry, they stung like what happened when you went swimming in the sea and got saltwater in them. He felt sure anybody who saw his face would know he had been crying. Crying was okay for Mary-Ann, she was a girl, and she wasn't fifteen. Nobody would think less of her for it._

 _As the person approaching drew closer, then sat down on the wall beside him, his fingers found another stone, which his arm hurled with extra force; it went too far, missing the mark._

 _"Mary-Ann told me what happened," Steve said at last. He, too, picked up a stone and aimed for the post. It fell several feet short. "Are you alright?"_

 _"Of course I'm alright," Bucky scoffed, fixing his eyes on the post, hardening himself like ice inside, preparing the mask he needed to wear, the words he needed to say. "He was just a stupid dog."_

 _"C'mon, Buck, this is me you're talking to. Your dad got that dog for you when you were five, and he followed you everywhere. Your mom said you should have named him 'Shadow.'"_

 _"Yeah, well. He was old. Dogs don't live forever. At least it was quick. At least I didn't have to take him somewhere and have a bullet put in his head." He told Steve the same things he'd told himself. Ways to make the pain less. But for some reason, saying them out loud didn't help at all. In fact, it made him feel worse._

 _Steve wisely kept quiet. He picked up another stone and got a little closer to the post. That was Steve all over; he_ _'d keep trying no matter how often he missed. Something Bucky had always admired. Now, though, all he wanted was for Steve to give up. To stop trying. To go away and leave him alone. But how could you tell your best friend to go away like that?_

 _"Mary-Ann seems pretty upset," Steve said at last._

 _"Then maybe you should go try to cheer her up instead. She's got a crush on you, y'know."_

 _"Mary-Ann doesn't need me, she needs her big brother. Charlie and Janet, too. Charlie's almost as upset as Mary-Ann, and Janet… I think she's struggling to understand what happened. She knows she's done something wrong—"_

 _"It wasn't her fault," Bucky cut in. It would be easy to blame his sister… but she was his sister. Besides, he knew where the blame_ truly _lay._ _"She's not even five yet. She didn't know not to leave the front door open. She didn't know that the latch on the gate doesn't work properly, and you have to slam it closed or it just swings wide. Sometimes, things just happen. The front door was open. The gate swung. The driver didn't have time to swerve. That's just what happened."_

 _"Then what are you doing out here?"_

 _His fingers came across a stone, and he picked it up. This time, the stone wasn_ _'t thrown; he gripped it in his hand, letting the sharp corners bite into his skin. Welcoming the pain that brought tears to his eyes, telling himself he cried because his hand hurt, and not because his heart did._

 _"I could have stopped it, Steve," he said. A few drops of blood dripped from his hand onto the concrete wall, and a moment later, a few drops of salty water joined them. "If I'd just hurried back from the store like Mom wanted… but Sally was there, and I stood talking to her for ten minutes. Know what the most stupid thing is? I can't even remember what we talked about. Some unimportant bullshit. Any excuse to get her to smile at me." He heard his own voice start to quaver and crack, and forced it back to a flat monotone. "If I hadn't done that, if I'd come home straight away, I would have caught him before he got out of the yard and ran across the street. I would have been the last one through the gate, and I would have made sure the latch was on properly, and I would have put the chain on the front door, and he never even would've got out. Instead, Janet heard the icecream cart, and she ran out, and she's five, Steve, she doesn't know any better. But I did. I know better and I stood talking to some girl because I like her smile, and because of that, my dog died."_

 _"Buck, it might not have been Janet's fault, but it wasn't yours, either. You didn't know. There was no way you could have known."_

 _"No, but that still doesn't change the fact that when my dad gets back in town at weekend, and asks me what I was doing whilst my dog was getting hit by a car, I have to tell him I was chatting up a girl who probably doesn't even give me a second thought as soon as I step out of her dad's shop. He left me to look after the house while Mom's back at work part time, and I couldn't even make it through a week without screwing up."_

 _"It's like you said. Things happen."_

 _"And what if it had been Janet who'd run out into the road and been hit by the car, trying to get to the icecream cart? If I'd been where I should have been, none of this would have happened." It was hard to say which feeling was worse; the sadness, or the guilt. They both hurt so much that they blocked out the pain in his hand caused by the biting stone. "And the worst part? It's not today. Today's pretty bad. But tomorrow I'm gonna wake up and walk into the kitchen and know that I'll never fill up his food dish again. When I leave the house, I'll walk past his leash hanging from the coat stand, and have to live with the fact that I'll never take him for a walk again. That his bed's never going to be slept in again. That he won't come walking into my room every morning and lick my hand 'til I wake up."_

 _"Tell you what," Steve said, "why don't we go down to the boxing club and tie you to one of the bags, have everyone help you beat yourself up? C'mon man, you know that if dogs could talk, and he were here now, he'd tell you to knock it off, stop doing this to yourself. You can't change what happened, but you still have a family who need you there with them. Charlie and Janet especially… they're too young to understand all this. They've never lost a friend before."_

 _Steve_ _'s words stopped the tears, and Bucky brushed them away with the back of his uninjured hand. Steve was right. Whilst he was moping out here, feeling sorry for himself and wallowing in his own loss, he'd forgotten that the rest of his family might be equally upset. His father had left him in charge, and despite what had happened, he still had a job to do. He was technically the man of the house; he had to be strong._

 _"You're right," he told his friend. "And you're a nag."_

 _Steve clapped a spidery hand on his shoulder._ _"C'mon, let's get you home. Your mom's making casserole to try and cheer everyone up. And she said that, if we want, we can give her newly-upholstered couch cushions a try."_

 _"Don't you think we're a little old for a sleepover?" Bucky scoffed._

 _"I kinda think you're never too old for a sleepover with your best friend. Besides, I'm gonna miss that dog too. Remember how he'd jump up at me every time I came to the house, and knock me over into—"_

 _"_ — _the coat stand," Bucky smiled._

 _"And that time we took him for a walk down by the beach, and I had hold of his leash while you bought Mary-Ann and Charlie icecream cones. And he saw that poodle and—"_

 _"_ — _chased it into the sea, dragging you through the surf for about a mile. Gotta give you credit for not letting go, even after you swallowed half the ocean and got your elbows ripped to shreds on the stones."_

 _"I think that's how you should remember the things you've lost. Not by dwelling on the bad times, but by celebrating the good. What do you say, Buck? We can stay up all night, stuff ourselves with popcorn and remember all the good times."_

 _Bucky let the blood-stained stone drop from his hand. It fell into the harbour, disappearing with a quiet_ _'plop.'_

 _"Thanks, pal. That sounds like a fitting tribute to Bingo."_

Bucky woke with a jolt, his hands checking his chest for a gunshot wound, or a knife entry point—something to explain the aching stab of pain he felt every time he took a breath. But there was nothing, nothing except the dream, and the pain of loss still fresh in his mind.

Just like in the dream, he fought back tears as he remembered his childhood pet. Part Irish wolfhound, part Great Dane, part Shetland pony; Bingo had been large enough and strong enough to carry Bucky around on his back even when he was ten years old, clinging to him like a baby monkey clinging to its mother's back. He'd been a gentle giant who'd lie under the dinner table waiting for scraps to drop… and everybody dropped him scraps, even Dad.

But if Bingo had been his childhood pet, dead since 1932, then what dog had Bucky pulled from the river? Was his mind so completely and utterly fractured that it was not only haunting him with the memory of dead people he'd killed, but also the memory of dead pets he'd been unable to save? Was he such a broken non-person that he was actually seeing, and touching—and often smelling—an imaginary dog? Had his mind blanked uneaten food? What had happened to the scraps he'd fed to the hound? Did the people who passed him on the street while he talked to Bingo merely see him talking to himself?

What if his mind hadn't finished toying with him? What if a dog wasn't the only thing he had imagined? What about Tommy, and Grant. Were they real? Had he invented Penny because he wanted someone pretty to smile at him and make him feel like he was more than a weapon? And Steve… was Steve any more real than Bingo? Had they really fought? Had Bucky tried to kill his childhood best friend, or had that all been in his mind? What if the motel wasn't real, too? What if he was on some cold, hard table back in Siberia, having memories put into, or taken out of, his head by Hydra?

And more importantly… if he couldn't trust his own eyes to show him reality as it _really_ was, how could he ever get his life real back?

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: You've heard of Murphy's Law? Well, welcome to Spaceman's Law. It can be roughly interpreted as follows: "When your completely broken protagonist expresses the opinion that He Is Going To Be Okay, or starts to gain even some small measure of hope and/or happiness… Go Straight To DEFCON 1, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect Your Arbitrary Allowance Of Money." The normal DEFCON scale ends at 1. Mine continues to -5. Next chapter will be -3.  
_

 _As a side note, my very patient (and extremely talented) ramble-buddy cairistiona7 informs me that MCU-canon has Bucky_ _'s siblings as 3 sisters. I usually follow canon closely, but here I'm stepping away to give him 1 brother, 2 sisters. More memories of them will follow._


	8. Down the Rabbit Hole

Running To You

 _8\. Down the Rabbit Hole_

Seated on a tall stool at a small table in an uptown Washington bar, Sam Wilson shed his light jacket and ran the back of his sleeve across his forehead. The city was sweltering even more than Ontario had, and the bar's aircon barely made a dint in the late-summer heatwave.

He ordered a couple of beers from the waitress and necked half his bottle as soon as it arrived, grateful for the momentary relief of the cool amber nectar. When he finished the first, he ordered a couple more and made a start on the second. Halfway through it, company arrived.

"Sorry I'm late," Steve said, taking the seat opposite and pulling off his aviators. "I got stuck in traffic."

"Don't sweat it, I haven't been waiting long." The joke was lost on Captain America; the guy was barely even sweating at all. Not bad, for a man who was nearly a century old. "Got you a couple of beers… you're on catch-up."

"Thanks." Steve picked up the bottle but only took a sip. He'd confided that these days, he only drank for taste, since he no longer felt the effects. That, Sam reckoned, was probably some sort of hell. Having to deal with being up every creek without a paddle, and completely sober all the time. "So. How was Canada?"

"Oh, Canada!" he quipped. "Hot, full of mosquitoes, and completely devoid of a Winter Soldier. It was a pretty long shot anyway. I mean, what would a decades-old Hydra assassin be doing logging in Ontario?" There was a time or two—or seven or eight—when he'd asked himself what the hell he was even doing out there, hiking to the middle of nowhere to track down the guy who'd thrown him off a helicarrier. The answer, when it had come to him, had been the same every time. _You don_ _'t leave a brother behind._ Barnes was the closest thing Steve had to family, and Steve needed Sam like the guys at the DVA needed him… only with less Kleenex.

"Thanks for checking it out, at least."

"It's no problem at all, man. I just wish we'd get something more promising than these dead ends. It's been almost three months; I didn't think he'd manage to keep a low profile for this long." Steve gave a tired nod of agreement and took another sip of his beer. Even Captain America's limitless patience had its limits. Every day Barnes was out there, his trail got colder. Cap had been so certain they'd find him soon after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, it had been soul-crushing to see him growing more disappointed at the end of every day. "But what about you? How'd the latest Hydra bust go down?"

"In some ways it's like being in the War all over again. We wipe Hydra off the map, one base at a time. But no sign of the Sceptre. Wherever they've got it hidden, it's not in the files we've managed to decrypt so far. At this rate, we might find Bucky long before we find Loki's Sceptre," said Cap. Sam didn't need his amazing powers of counsellor observation to hear what Steve _really_ said: _I really hope we find Bucky before we find Loki_ _'s Sceptre._

"Not if we keep running into dead ends." He pushed his beer aside and leant forward. Time to test the waters. Following a trail wasn't working, not with a trail this cold. They didn't need to _track_ Barnes, they needed to _hunt_ him. That was a different beast altogether. "I've been thinking; maybe we've been going about this the wrong way. Maybe we shouldn't be looking for places he's been recently; maybe we should be trying to anticipate where he's going next."

"How?"

"You guys were best friends for practically your whole lives. You knew him better than anyone. Knowing him as you do, where do you think he'd go?"

"It's not that easy, Sam," Steve sighed. "Sure, I knew Bucky. But if this was the Bucky I knew, we wouldn't be looking for him. He'd be here, letting me help him. We've only seen a small portion of what Hydra have had him doing these past seventy years, and who knows how much that might change a man? I'm banking on my friend still being in there, but right now, I don't know how much of a say the old Bucky has."

Again, Sam thought the words Captain America couldn't bring himself to say. _Who knows how much of Barnes is even left inside that overcooked noodle?_

"Alright, then let's look at it from the opposite direction. If I were a brainwashed Hydra super-soldier who'd just gotten his first taste of freedom, where would I go? Personally, I'm thinking I'd go back to where it all started."

"Home," Steve nodded. "Problem is, does he think of home as the Hydra base where they kept him all those years, or is home the place where he grew up as a child?"

"If it's the Hydra base, there's a chance you might come across information regarding him whilst looking for the Sceptre. If it's the place he grew up, maybe we should be casting our nets a little closer to home."

Steve downed the rest of his bottle and shook his head. "The house where Bucky grew up is gone. I've already been there myself… it's an apartment block now, and a 7-11. I spoke to the store manager, gave him an e-fit of Bucky… he's promised to get in contact if he sees anything."

"At least we've got one base covered." He opened his backpack and pulled out the folder Steve had given him for safekeeping. Inside was not only everything the KGB had on the Winter Soldier, but also everything Steve had on Bucky, and all that Sam had been able to dig up from libraries, and the internet. Three months of studying his quarry had told him the story of a man who was easy to get along with, who made friends quickly and was loyal to a fault. Intelligent, resourceful, athletic… Bucky Barnes' story was the story of a million soldiers, Sam included. Until 1945, anyway. "I had another thought, on the plane back from Canada."

"Let's hear it."

"If I were him, I'd want to retrace my own steps. To look for evidence of my own past. If Hydra could take away his memories of you, who knows that else they might have taken, including the memories of past missions."

"You think he'll go back to the places Hydra sent him?"

"It's as good a guess as any, and better than sitting here twiddling our thumbs." Thumb-twiddling was not only counter-productive, it could be downright dangerous. As a soldier, you lived the life of action. Always on alert, a state of perpetual tension, ready to grab your gun or your mask on a single order. Even when there was nothing to do, there was something to think about. Survival. It kept you sane. Kept the madness of combat from clawing your guts out. When a vet got back home, and there were no more orders, no more tension, nothing to occupy the mind… it was a different sort of madness. A monster that crawled out from a bottomless pit of inactivity and sucked you dry like a vampire. Maybe even a brain-washed Hydra assassin-soldier had to find a way to keep that monster at bay.

Steve eyed the thick folder, blue eyes shadowed by a troubled frown. "That's a lot of places, Sam. And those are only the ones we know about. I can't ask you to make that sort of commitment."

"No need to ask, man. We both lost friends in service. Riley's gone, but if I can help you get your friend back, then it's worth every second spent." Much as he hated having to drop his commitments at the VA's office, he could do it knowing there were very capable men and women to step in for him. But this… Barnes was the most feared assassin, probably one of the most wanted and hated men, of the past fifty years. There weren't many people who could even think about tracking down a man like that. And even more important, there weren't many people—in fact, no other people—that Steve Rogers would trust his best friend's welfare to. The Avengers, Stark, Fury… they'd do what had to be done. If they saw Barnes, the first thing they'd see would be a threat. Steve didn't see that, and he knew Sam had the ability to see past it. This wasn't about stopping an enemy, it was about saving a friend, and knowing that Captain America trusted Sam Wilson to save his closest friend's life, was worth every personal sacrifice he could make.

"Are you sure? I mean, you got out and were in the process of getting your life back before I came along and derailed it."

"Hmm." Sam adopted the most thoughtful expression he could muster. "Saturday night drinks and karaoke with my friends, or chasing a brainwashed assassin, who threw me off a helicarrier, halfway across the world. It's almost the same as when I wake up in the morning and don't know whether to have a bacon roll or a bowl of granola, except my breakfast has never tried to kill me." Unless you believed those health warnings about the dangers of bacon on your cholesterol. But it couldn't be any worse than the dangers of war on your continued living.

Steve gave him a wry smile. "Now that I _know_ is all Hydra. The Bucky I knew would never have thrown you from so high. Ground level, maybe, if he thought you deserved it…"

"Hey, don't worry about me, Cap. As far as I'm concerned, it wasn't personal. Besides, we all walked away from it. No harm, no foul."

"Thanks for understanding." Steve ran his hand along the back of his head, ruffling his hair. "At the very least, I can help you get a start on those locations. Stark has Jarvis working on decrypting more of Hydra's files, but it's a work in progress. Until then, the Avengers are on stand-down. Maybe between us we can narrow the search a little."

"Sounds like a plan. Where do you want to begin?"

o - o - o - o - o

Bucky was miserable. The heat was pervasive, his dog was dead and his mind was more broken than he had ever imagined it could be. His victims still came to him at night, their voices clamorous, their stares accusatory, and there was only so much time he could allocate to finding them. He had to eat. He had to work. The public library had pretty limited opening hours. Even dedicating his whole weekends to the search for his victims did not always yield results. Sometimes it took two or three weeks of searching before he found a name to put to a face, and sometimes the name was all history had recorded.

As he rolled out of bed, he tried not to look at the empty space on the floor, tried not to think about the need to buy more dog food, or sneak a large hound out of the motel. There was no need for those things anymore. There never had been.

After his shower, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. It had been a while since he'd looked into it. He no longer expected Bucky Barnes to look back at him. Instead, he feared he might see some broken thing, a reflection cracked and warped, the outside reflecting the fractured soul within.

When he finally dared look up, his breath caught in his throat and he almost stepped back in fright. But when he realised his reflection was only foggy because of the condensation from the shower, he quickly forced himself to relax and his heart resumed a less panicked rhythm. Of course his mirror would not reflect what was inside him. This was reality. It wasn't fiction, and the mirror was not some Dorian Grey-like portrait. Mirrors could only reflect the truth. Nothing more.

He wiped the condensation with a corner of his towel, then froze. Behind him was a shadow. Small. Dark. It was upright on two legs, but more than that he could not discern.

Raising his cybernetic arm in defence, he spun on the spot and faced… nothing. There was nobody behind him. Nothing in the bathroom which could cast a shadow like the one he had seen. Fighting worry and confusion, he looked again at the mirror and saw only himself, dull rings beneath his dull grey eyes, lower face a rough blanket of dark stubble, mouth and jaw clenched with tension. No shadow.

"Great. Not only am I seeing dead people, and feeding dead dogs, but I'm also imagining shadows. And talking to myself. Could this day possibly get any worse?"

It did.

The next time he saw the shadow was as he passed by the window of a clothes store. A pair of boots caught his eye, and as he looked at them, the shadow emerged from the corner of his vision, reflected in the window. He spun quickly, but saw nothing. When he looked back, the shadow was gone, and so was his interest in the boots.

He bought a coffee and a chocolate-filled bread roll from a street vendor. Even if Penny _didn_ _'t_ think he was insane, he had no desire to see her again. No desire to inflict his crazy on anybody other than himself. Besides, if he saw her, she'd ask after his dog, and he'd have to tell her the truth. It was hard enough accepting the truth himself, much less telling it to other people.

At Tommy's garage, he got to work right away on a Chevy that needed a new ignition system. It was Grant's day off, and Tommy had gone out to pick up some parts for another Beamer he was working on. After replacing the faulty ignition switch, Bucky sat in the front seat and slipped the key into the starter. Force of habit made him check his rear view mirror, and that's when he saw it again, the blurry black outline of someone sitting on the seat behind him.

He jumped almost out of his skin, turning so fast that he caught the car's horn with his left elbow. The foghorn-like blare did nothing for his fraying nerves, but again there was nothing behind him, and he _knew_ it had to be his imagination because he was the Goddamn Winter Soldier, and even if someone had managed to sneak up on him in the street, and in his motel room, there wasn't a chance in hell they could have gotten into the back of the Chevy without him noticing.

After that, the shadow toyed with him. Every time he passed something reflective, he expected to see it. The wing mirror of a car. The glass in a shop window. The still surface of water. Each time he expected it, prepared himself, bracing mentally and physically, the shadow failed to show. But if he dared to let his guard down, or if he just happened to glance at something which gave even the haziest of reflections, it was there, on the periphery, a phantom that would not leave him alone even when it was leaving him alone.

Worse was a feeling deep inside of aching, painful familiarity. He knew the shadow. It wasn't the shadow of a stranger. Not even the shadow of somebody he'd killed, for those people had no qualms about making themselves known to him, and their own hauntings were more straightforward and honest. No, this shadow was insidious, feeding off his fear like a parasite, and the more he became afraid of seeing it, the larger and darker the shadow grew.

On Friday morning he woke and wished he didn't have to. His dream had been a memory of his childhood, and though it left an aching feeling inside of him, like a hunger that needed to be filled, it was better than the visitations of the dead.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up in bed, and froze. There was somebody in his room, sitting in the chair by the small table. Somebody who had watched him sleep. The same somebody who had watched him sleep through the days, and weeks, and months, and years, and decades. Finally, Bucky knew who the shadow was.

"Good morning, Sergeant Barnes," said Arnim Zola. "You're looking well rested. Did you have a pleasant night's sleep?"

The sight of the doctor woke something within him, some echo of the Soldier Zola had made now stirring to life. And it was _angry._ A bubble of fear and hatred so strong that it welled up within him and momentarily drowned out all other thoughts. Had Bucky not known that the doctor couldn't possibly be real, he would have lashed out with his cybernetic fist right there and then, a killing stroke straight to the windpipe. Instead, he pushed the Soldier away, forcing the fear and hatred back down inside him, where it could not touch him.

"You're not real," Bucky said, edging towards the other side of the bed. His skin broke out in gooseflesh, every hair on his body standing on end. "You're dead."

"Is that what you think?" The small, pudgy face gave him a smile, beady eyes studying him from behind wire-rimmed glasses.

"Pierce told me. Captain America killed you."

"For some people, death is not an end result, merely a transitional phase. It would not be the first time I have died, Sergeant, and I doubt it will be the last."

Bucky closed his eyes, shutting out the face, wishing he could shut out the voice as easily.

"You're not here. I'm imagining you. Just like Bingo. Just like the faces of the people I killed."

"Did you think you could just walk away from Hydra, Sergeant Barnes? That we would let you go without a fight? We made you. Because of us, you were _great._ Without Hydra, what would your life have amounted to? Whether you wish to admit it or not, you _are_ Hydra, just as I am."

"No! That's a lie!" He opened his eyes and saw a self-satisfied smile on Zola's face.

"Is it? Do you remember so little of your 'life' before Hydra that you really believe it was worth something? You were a soldier, Sergeant Barnes, one among millions. What made you special? Nothing. There was nothing unique about you. Nothing at all that made you stand out in a crowd. Until we found you, and made you better."

"Better?" He pushed himself to his feet and strode to the spectre, towering over the man in the chair, both fists clenching tightly, his right hand shaking with fear and anger that flooded his body in equal measures. "You stole my life! If it hadn't been for you, I could have… I could have done anything. Anything I wanted. I could have had a career, a family, I could have been happy!"

Zola gave a quiet chuckle, a shake of his head. "A career? As what? A labourer? A bus driver? Oh, of course, you liked the boxing. Maybe you could have done it professionally? For what, a few years, at your physical peak? And then what would there have been for you? Decades of reminiscing about your glory days to… a family, was it? You, who chased a different girl every week? Who kept them, emotionally speaking, at arms' length? Who never learnt to let them as close to you as your best friend? The simple life would have weighed you down, Sergeant. That is what you do not understand. We freed you from the tedium of a life less than ordinary, lifted you from mediocrity and made you into something extraordinary."

"You made me into a _thing_. I wasn't a person anymore. Not to you. I was a tool, a weapon to be commanded. I would rather have lived and died a small, ordinary life, than the slavery you forced me into. Now get out of my motel room, and get out of my head!"

"You will return to us, Sergeant Barnes. It is your destiny."

"I'll die first," he growled.

"Die again, you mean?" Zola smiled. "We'll see."

And just like that, he was gone. No puff of smoke, no snap of the fingers, he merely wasn't there anymore. Bucky sat down on the edge of the bed taking a deep, shaky breath. This… this Zola thing, it was different. When the dead came, he saw them in his head when he slept, but never within the world. He could address them mentally in his dreams, but not talk to them aloud, and they never interacted with him, beyond accusing and rebuking him. The Zola apparition was more like Bingo; a memory masquerading as a real thing. This memory, though, was less benign than his childhood pet, and Bucky had a sinking feeling that he hadn't seen the last of the butcher who had stolen his life.

o - o - o - o - o

Bucky woke on Sunday morning to the sound of traffic passing outside his window. He had nothing to do, nowhere to be, and no reason to make any effort to get out of bed. Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the off-white ceiling above. The ceiling was his life. His future. He could see it up there, but when he reached out his hand to try and touch it, it was always out of reach. Even swapping hands, replacing flesh for metal, did not help. He brought down his metal hand, holding it in front of his face, and for the first time since reclaiming his freedom, realised the full extent of what Hydra had done to him.

They hadn't just taken his life. His home. His friends. His memories. They hadn't just made him stronger. Faster. Harder. They hadn't just forced him to do their bidding time and time again, snuffing out lives as they saw fit. They hadn't just stolen his past… they had denied him his future. For how could he ever go back, after everything he had done? Who would ever accept him as he was; broken, tarnished, part machine? Their mind-washing had ensured his obedience, and their physical mutilation had ensured his isolation. He could have no friends, because he could not afford to let anybody get close. Anybody who found out what he was, would betray him and be right to do so. Even Steve, who had seen the ghost of his best friend in the face of the Winter Soldier, would turn away from him if he learnt of all the innocent blood he had spilled over the long, cold years.

Destiny.

Was there any such thing? Had he always been destined to become the Winter Soldier, as Zola claimed, or had it been purely acts of circumstance which had led to his capture and creation? In a way, the answer didn't matter. Regardless of how he had come here, here he was. He could deal with that because everything that had happened so far was in the past.

The future, though… he had to know. If he was here because of destiny, then maybe Zola was right, and fighting was pointless. Destiny meant that no matter what he did, he would always end up being Hydra's weapon, and by trying to be something else, he was merely torturing himself with unattainable goals.

From what he remembered of his life before Hydra, he didn't think he'd been much of a believer in destiny. Even when Steve had undergone his own transformation into Captain America, emerging from his mechanical chrysalis as a hero to the nation, even when Bucky's closest friend had rescued him from Hydra's clutches the first time, it hadn't been anything more than happy coincidence. Bucky Barnes, for better or worse, had believed in making his own luck.

Now, that certainty had been removed. He could feel his fractured mind shattering even further, his tenuous grip on reality slipping as he wrestled with concepts like 'free will' and 'fate'. Steve, the dead, Bingo, and now Zola… it was all too much. A weight bearing down on him, crushing him from the inside, his physical strength rendered useless. When his thoughts were darkest, when Zola's words chipped away at his resolve and let doubt creep into his heart, those were the times when it was all he could do to keep breathing, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to get himself from one moment to the next. Now, he didn't think that was enough anymore.

A sound from outside drifted into his ears, a quiet tolling momentarily distracting him from his pit of despair.

 _Flash._

" _But Momma, I don't wanna go!"_

 _The wail of despair came from three year old Charlie, whose bottom lip was stuck out so far that Bucky thought he could have tossed hoops onto it. The boy_ _'s shirt was buttoned only half way, and incorrectly at that, and his left trouser leg was tucked into his grey socks._

 _His beleaguered mother stuck her head from around the kitchen door, where she was giving six month old Janet a late night feeding. Her dark brown hair had been set into perfect curls, ready for the family outing._ _"Bucky," she sighed, "please would you fix up your brother's outfit? I won't have him sitting in Mass looking like he got dressed in the dark."_

 _Bucky nodded and put down the rag and brush he_ _'d been using to polish his shoes. "C'mere, pipsqueak." He reached for Charlie, who tried to run away, but Bucky was faster. He lifted his little brother onto his knee and swiftly re-buttoned his blue shirt._

" _I don't wanna go!" Charlie whined again. "Why do I gotta go?"_

" _Because it's Christmas," Bucky explained. "And if you don't go to Mass, you won't get presents tomorrow."_

" _Bucky." His mother's voice held a note of warning that didn't need elaboration._

" _I mean, err, because it's super important to remember the birth of Jesus Christ," he corrected. Leaning forward towards his brother, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "And because you won't get presents tomorrow, otherwise."_

" _MOM!" A frustrated shriek pierced the air, making both Bucky and Charlie jump. A few seconds later it was accompanied by loud stomping as Mary-Ann ran down the stairs. She appeared in the living room looking flustered, her cheeks pink and a red ribbon clutched in her fist, which she raised and shook in the direction of the kitchen door. There was always drama, with Mary-Ann. "Mom, I can't tie my ribbon, it keeps dropping out!"_

" _Bucky..?"_

" _Yeah yeah, I got the ribbon. Give it here, Annie."_

 _She handed it over and gave him a scowl of warning._ _"Make sure you don't tie it too low, and make sure to do a double—"_

" _I know how you like your ribbon tying," he interrupted. His sister was only a few weeks away from turning nine, but she was already as picky about her appearance as a grown woman. More picky, in fact. Mom certainly never shrieked like that over her hair. He swiftly wove the ribbon into his sister's plaited locks, tying it off firmly so it wouldn't fall out. Charlie made an automatic grab for the colourful thing, and Bucky quickly slapped his chubby hand away. Mary-Ann would have kittens if Charlie messed her hair up now. "There you go."_

 _She turned to face him and caught her bottom lip between her teeth._ _"Does it look okay?"_

" _Perfect," he smiled. On his knee, Charlie fidgeted to get down, and Bucky tightened his grip. His little brother had a habit of getting himself all messy if he wasn't watched closely; it was as if he had some sort of special sense for where piles of dirt or dust where at. "C'mon Charlie, time to put your shoes on. We gotta go soon, or we won't get good seats."_

" _I don't wanna wear my shoes!"_

" _Well, you gotta."_

" _BUT I DON'T WANNA!"_

 _Bucky shook his head and wondered whether he_ _'d been such a handful at Charlie's age. When he reached down and picked up the small pair of shoes, Charlie flailed in his grip, arms and legs swinging all over the place. Mary-Ann stepped back to avoid being kicked by a toddler leg._

" _Don't wanna, don't wanna!" Charlie wailed._

" _MOM!" Bucky shouted._

" _Just put his shoes on as best you can," his mother called back._

 _If shoe wrestling ever became a sport, Charlie would have been the world champion. Every time Bucky got a shoe on, Charlie squirmed until he was out of his arms, then managed to kick it off. At one point, he was upside down clinging to Bucky_ _'s legs and kicking his own wildly in an effort to avoid the footwear. Mary-Ann watched on, twin expressions of disgust and amusement on her face._

" _Oh, just leave him, Bucky," his sister said at last. "Only_ babies _don_ _'t wear shoes. Charlie's too little to walk with us, Dad can carry him like a_ baby _while Mom carries baby Janet._ _"_

 _Charlie stopped fighting and scowled at Mary-Ann._ _"'M' notta baby!"_

" _Of course you're a baby. See?" She pointed to his grey socks. "You're not wearing any shoes. Only babies don't wear shoes."_

" _I'm wearing shoes." Charlie made a grab for the nearest shoe, and pulled it onto the wrong foot. When Bucky corrected him and laced them up before his brother could change his mind, Charlie didn't object._

' _Thank you' Bucky mouthed to his sister. When had she gotten so wise to Charlie's tantrums? She merely shrugged, and pulled on her own shiny footwear._

 _When Mom had finished feeding Janet, they met Dad outside, where he was talking to Mr Peterson, the neighbour._

" _Merry Christmas, Mrs Barnes," Mr Peterson said, tipping his cap. "And to you as well, Bucky, Mary-Ann, Charlie."_

" _I'm wearing shoes," said Charlie, holding up one leg._

" _Well, aren't you a big boy?"_

 _Charlie nodded solemnly._

" _Merry Christmas, Mr Peterson," Mary-Ann said, and Bucky echoed her sentiment._

" _Are we all ready to go?" Dad asked. He'd been ready for an hour, leaving the house early to share a brandy and escape the bedlam. Bucky couldn't wait for the day when he was old enough to escape the house early. After a chorus of 'yes', they said goodbye to Mr Peterson and set off for the church._

 _A light snow had been falling for the past few hours, and the streets had an inch-thick coating which made them look fresh and crisp. With a pang of regret for the gloves forgotten on his bed, Bucky shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and a moment later Mary-Ann looped her arm through his and tucked her hands into her coat too. They strode on ahead whilst Mom and Dad strolled more slowly. Charlie ran up and down the sidewalk, laughing at his own footprints, giggling at the flakes which tickled his nose as they fell._

 _They reached the church just as the first bell began to toll. At the curb, Bucky grabbed Charlie_ _'s hand, and the three of them waited for their parents to catch up. Across the road, the regal building spilled colourful light from its stained glass windows, and he could already hear the pipe organ playing a slow song of welcome. Catching Mary-Ann's eyes, he smiled, and she grinned back. Tomorrow was Christmas, and that meant presents. But for tonight, there were worse ways to spend an evening than with family._

 _Flash._

The memory of his eleventh Christmas was so strong that when it ended, he experienced physical disorientation. The warm light of the church on the snow fell away as he sat up, but the feeling of his sister's arm looped through his lasted longer, and he could still feel Charlie's small hand in his own even though his left hand had been gone for decades. Experimentally, he flexed his metal fingers a few times. He still couldn't feel anything _real_ through them, but the _memory_ of feeling was powerful, tugging at something inside his chest, dragging out some squirming, twisting emotion that burnt and froze and ached and filled him with a strange kind of warmth.

His family. Never before had he remembered them in so much detail. Their clothes, their voices, their faces, their unique little quirks… he'd thought them lost with the house, but they were still with him. Still inside his head, still inside his heart, awakening slowly. Suddenly, that loneliness seemed a little less painful, and he realised there was one last place he might turn to for answers.

Purpose finally drove him from his bed. He showered, dressed and was out the door in ten minutes. His feet carried him without conscious direction, as if they had a mind of their own and already knew where to take him. For once he paid less attention to his surroundings than he probably ought to have done, didn't bother checking to see if he was followed, didn't scan the faces of the people in the opposite flow of foot-traffic. He barely even registered the oppressive heat; his skin still remembered the crisp touch of snow.

He found the church and stood in the same spot that he had some eighty years ago, letting his eyes drink in the sight. It had changed, but that was no surprise; everything had changed. It was still the same church, but an extension had been added onto the side, along with a new roof and a smaller bell-tower.

"You will not find any answers here." The voice of Arnim Zola set his hair on end once more. The diminutive doctor stepped forward, to stand beside Bucky as he observed the church. "All they can give you are comforting lies."

Bucky forced his face to remain still, calm. When he replied, it was quietly, under his breath, so that people walking by would not think he was crazy. "I don't believe that."

"Do you believe _anything_?" Zola asked. "I don't recall you being particularly devout. You have not turned to this institution out of faith, but out of desperation. A measure of last resort. You think the church can give you answers? That God can save your damaged soul?" The doctor's voice was dismissive, triumphant. "There is no God! The only divine power is that which we create for ourselves."

"You're a crackpot. A dead crackpot." He looked down at the doctor, and his cybernetic hand clenched unconsciously into a fist.

"Crackpot? I am the man who made you. I—"

"No," he growled. A young mother pushing a pram down the street looked up, concern in her eyes when they fell on him. To avoid suspicion, he crossed the road and strode towards the church door. Zola followed him. "My parents made me. You _stole_ me. You tried to erase who I was, and time and time again, you failed."

"Yes," Zola nodded sadly. "That is why we made the others."

His hand already on the door handle, Bucky paused, his heart suddenly skipping a beat before marching on double-time. "Others?"

"Hydra is your family, Sergeant Barnes. You have brothers. Sisters. You don't remember them yet, but in time, you will."

Bucky took a deep breath, forced his feelings aside, pushed away the queasiness and the uncertainty. Inside, he became as cold as ice. As cold as the Winter Soldier.

"So you claimed more victims. Made more weapons. Wiped more minds. It doesn't matter. Whatever and whoever I left behind in Siberia… those people are not my family. My real family lived here, in New York." His real family had loved him, and mourned him, and continued with their lives after he was gone.

"How sad they would be, to hear you say this!" Zola wailed, throwing his hands in the air. "Ever since you left, they have been asking, _'Where is our big brother? Why has he not returned from his mission?'_ And now I must go back and tell them that you have denounced them?"

"You're not going anywhere because you're a figment of my imagination!" Bucky hissed. His patience snapped. He finally lashed out with his metal fist, but Zola was already gone.

"Such anger!" He spun on the spot, found Zola behind him. "This is what happens when you stay awake for too long. Come back to us, come back home. You have earned a much-needed rest."

The Soldier woke within him. Remembered decades of pain. Terrible coldness. A bright, shining chair. Recognised Zola's face once more, and snarled, ' _Kill!_ _'_

Bucky put a leash on the anger, sending Hydra's weapon back to sleep. "No, never, I'm never going back!" he yelled, and yanked the door open to disappear into the church before he had to deal with more of Zola's words, or the stares of those who'd seen him shout at nothing. Safely behind the door, he closed it and leant back against it, forcing air into his lungs, trying to slow his breathing.

Zola was lying. He was part of Bucky's mind, and had latched on to his thoughts about family, to the memory he'd had of Christmas and church, and was exploiting that to confuse him, to make him feel guilty. Even if the imaginary doctor wasn't lying, it didn't matter. Hydra had nothing worth returning for. They weren't his family, and never had been.

A droning voice caught his attention, and once he'd regained his composure, he followed it to a prayer hall, where a sermon was in session. Quiet as he could, he slipped onto one of the empty benches at the back of the room, only half listening as his eyes lingered over every ornate details, looking for some clue to his past. The benches, the font, the altar, the crucifix, the organ, the windows… it was all very churchey. But it could have been any church, in any town, or on any television programme. Nothing spoke to him personally. He couldn't remember where he'd sat with his family, during that Christmas Eve Mass so long ago. He wasn't even sure what kind of church this _was_.

Zola appeared on the bench beside Bucky, swiftly killing any dim hope he'd held that the building might offer some sort of metaphysical protection against the apparitions which haunted him.

"It would take more than a church to keep me away, Sergeant Barnes." Zola's face scrunched up in thought. "A synagogue, perhaps. Maybe after you've failed to find answers in the Bible, you could fail to find them the Torah, too."

This time, Bucky didn't respond. He'd lost control outside, and he couldn't even blame the Soldier for that, but he couldn't afford to lose control in here. Not in a room full of people silently focused on the priest's words.

"I've always found it amusing, how the non-religious will turn to God when they run out of options. What is it you hope to find here? Answers? Acceptance? Forgiveness? Only Hydra can grant you those."

It wasn't easy to drown out the annoying, accented voice, but somehow, Bucky managed it. He listened without hearing as the priest spoke on, letting his mind wander back to his earlier memory. He poured over it, recalling his mother's shiny brown hair, Mary-Ann's dress and the ribbon he'd tied for her… Charlie's grey socks as he kicked to avoid his shoes… his father's relaxed stance as he leant against the fence talking to the neighbour… It was a shame nobody had yet invented a camera that could take snapshots of memories. Where there was one memory, there were bound to be many more, and if they started coming back too quickly, he might start forgetting some of the earlier ones.

Perhaps he should start writing things down.

As the sermon came to an end, the priest called for everybody to rise for a hymn. Bucky didn't know the words. He didn't even know if he could sing, and he wasn't in any hurry to find out. He mimed along, while Dr Zola hummed some other tune which sounded suspiciously like _The Star-Spangled Banner._

When people began to file out, Bucky sat back down. Here, he was lost. He'd come for answers, but didn't even have questions prepared. He could pray, but he wasn't insane enough to believe that God would personally answer all his questions. In the end, he was saved by the priest, who'd finished saying farewell to his parishioners and now wandered over looking rather bemused.

"Hello there," the man said. A smile appeared on his age-lined face. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Bucky glanced down at the prayer book on the back of the bench in front of him, and tried not to fidget. When he'd had the idea of coming here, it had made perfect sense. Now it seemed stupid, and he felt like a child on his first day of school, unsure of where to sit, where to look, what to do. Lost again, he clung to what he'd learnt from the TV in the motel.

"Yeah. I guess I came here looking for… guidance?" His eyes darted around the room. "I thought there might be some box I could sit in. One of the talking boxes."

"Ahh. Our confessionals are held on Mondays and Wednesdays. But if it helps, we could talk for a short while now?"

Bucky felt tiny beads of sweat bleed from his forehead. Now that the people were gone, the air in the church felt heavy. Oppressive. Judgemental. The priest's patient eyes were watching him. Zola's horrible bug-eyes were watching him. He was too open. Too exposed. He jumped to his feet.

"I can't. I have…" his mind groped for the word, and for once it did not betray him. "Agoraphobia. Fear of open spaces."

"Oh dear," the priest tutted. "Well, I suppose there's no harm in making an exception. I can give you a few moments in a confession booth if you like, and should you wish to speak further, you'd be quite welcome to come back for one of our standard confessional sessions."

Bucky hesitated. He wouldn't come back. He knew it. He could feel eyes watching him from everywhere, seeing right through his flesh and metal, seeing right down inside to his broken and battered soul. Judging him. It took him a moment to figure out why. The characters in the stained glass windows… their eyes followed him. They were priests and saints and apostles. They were dead a thousand years if they'd ever truly lived at all, but they knew what he had done, and they knew he had no right to stand there and ask for help. They were like the dead people in his head, only, in a window. And unlike the people in his head, they would not be appeased. It was now or never, unless he could find a church without windows. But this church was special. He'd been here with his family. It had to be this one.

"Okay," he agreed, taking a deep breath of sweet, religious air. It tasted rather like incense. "Thank you."

The priest, walking in his swishy robes, led him down one of the aisles towards the side of the church, where a confessional box was waiting. Bucky stared at it for a long moment, then went inside, quickly closing the door so that Zola couldn't follow him in. As soon as he entered the booth, away from the eyes of the glass saints and the imaginary crackpot doctor, he felt a wave of relief wash over him, and sank down onto the small stool which squeaked in complaint. The booth's interior was nice. Cool. Dark. So small that he wouldn't have been able to stretch his arms straight out from his sides. He took another deep breath and let calmness seep in. A few seconds later, a small sliding door was pulled aside, revealed a latticed pattern carved into the wood through which a small measure of light spilled. The light… he didn't like it. It felt like an intruder into his dark sanctuary. But he could hardly ask the priest to sit in darkness.

After a moment of silence, Bucky cleared his throat. "I, um, I've never done this before." He'd seen it on television, but all that _Bless me Father_ stuff sounded so trite. So… scripted.

"Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?" the priest suggested.

Yes, he could do that. He couldn't spill _everything_ on his mind, of course. Even priests probably weren't used to hearing about dead people and secret organisations and brain-washing, and he was fairly sure that if he admitted to killing people, the man would have to get the police involved. Wasn't there some sort of law or amendment about that?

"I suppose the main thing is… I need to know whether God has a plan for me."

"He has a plan for all of us," the priest replied.

"Oh." This was not what he wanted to hear. Free will just lost a point. "So, it doesn't matter what we choose to do?"

"On the contrary; it matters very much."

Confusion stabbed its prickly thorns into his brain. The priest might as well have just said, _my head is a square circle._ And perhaps the man picked up on his silent confusion, because he elaborated before Bucky could even ask.

"When I say that God has a plan for all of us, I don't mean that he has personally planned out every moment of your life." The priest moved a little, casting a shadow into Bucky's half of the booth. "What I mean is, within the soul of every man, woman and child, God has planted a seed of greatness." This sounded weird, but Bucky kept quiet. "Each of us is capable of great things, but how you get there, how you grow that tiny seed into a tree which reaches Heaven, is up to you."

This sounded familiar. He'd heard it before, he was certain. Only… it hadn't been a seed, it had been beans. And there was something about a giant that liked to eat English people. Was it the same thing? He shook his head and put the thought aside for a moment. God probably wasn't an English-person-eating giant. That must have been something else.

"How do I know what God's plan for me is?" he asked.

"You will just know."

"But _how_?"

"Have you ever heard of an _epiphany?_ "

It sounded like a dodgy auction website, or something your doctor prescribed for insomnia, but he was fairly certain the priest was not looking for either of those answers. When he failed to respond, the answer was provided.

"It is a moment of divine understanding. Of perfect clarity. They are God's way of showing us that we are on the right path."

"Okay. But I still don't understand. What if God's plan for me isn't good? What if he wants me to become an instrument of destruction? What if by fighting that, I'm actually going against his plan?" There was a strained silence from the priest. "Uh, just throwing it out there."

"Why do you torture yourself with these confusing thoughts, Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky leapt up and banged his head on the wooden roof, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. The priest had spoken with Zola's voice… Bucky could see the outline of the squat doctor through the patterned window. He held the palms of his hands against his eyes for a moment, then blinked to clear his vision. It didn't help.

"Come home, Sergeant. Your mind is broken. You cannot function out of cryostasis for more than a few days. It has been too long. Too long…"

"No, you're not real," Bucky said. He tried closing his eyes and opening them again. Still didn't help. "I've told you, I'd rather die than go back!" Inside his mind, he felt the Soldier stir again, bringing a new suggestion in response to Bucky's panic. _Danger. Escape._

He groped for the door handle and pushed it open, then stumbled out into the glaring brightness of the church. The window-saints were still there with their cold, glassy-stares like dead fish, still waiting to judge him. He should have known this was pointless. Foolish. That Hydra would not let him look for answers with anybody except themselves. Feeling sick, he dashed outside and took several deep gulps of air. Passers-by stared at him. He couldn't blame them. He felt shaky and sweaty and panicked. But he couldn't stand here drawing attention. He needed to be out of sight. Away from people. Away from the eyes which could see through his flesh and had come to judge his tarnished soul. Coming here, trying to find guidance, had been a mistake. It was one he would not make again.

* * *

 _Author Note: Just a little advanced warning, the next chapter is going to get dark. DEFCON -5 dark. Some readers may find it upsetting. Please feel free to skip ahead to Chapter 10 if it gets too heavy for you._


	9. Pariah

Running To You

 _9\. Pariah_

It was a nightmare. An exhausting, perpetual, relentless hell. Doctor Zola refused to leave Bucky alone. When he woke up in the morning, Zola was there. When he went for breakfast, Zola nagged him about the nutritional deficiencies of his choices. At the garage, the doctor talked ceaselessly about Hydra, about how the organisation was going to make the world great. At night, he fell asleep to the sound of Zola's insidious voice. For once, he welcomed the accusations of the dead. They were a blessed break from the pug-like face of the evil scientist.

Tommy and Grant thought he was crazy. He could tell by the way they went quiet whenever he looked at them. It was a wonder he still had a job, but Tommy had a lot of work that needed doing, and Bucky was a good mechanic and an efficient worker even when he was being haunted by the ghost of Zola past.

A few days after the church, he discovered a reprieve. Fed up of being constantly harassed, and mentally exhausted from trying to ignore the grating voice, he got out of bed during the early hours of the morning, opened the door of the closet, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him. It was like the confessional box all over again. He felt an immediate relief. Though Zola's voice still filtered in through the wood of the door, at least Bucky didn't have to look at the face and see those horrible bug-eyes. The closet was barely big enough for _him_ to stand in, and so far Zola, like Bingo before him, seemed to conform to the laws of physics even though he wasn't actually real. Whilst Bucky was in the closest, there was no room for Zola.

It wasn't merely relief from the mad scientist that the large cupboard brought; it was a feeling of familiarity and safety. When he realised Zola couldn't get in, Bucky didn't even bother with the bed anymore. He merely sank down in the closet, sitting on the floor with his knees raised almost to chin-height, and managed to grab enough sleep in the awkward position to satisfy both his body and mind.

To try and further distract himself from the eternal haunting of Zola, Bucky put his enhanced physiology to use. He could survive on a few hours' sleep per week, so he settled for just a couple each night, during the early hours of the morning. The rest of the time, he walked. He didn't walk anywhere in particular, he merely walked for the sake of giving his body something to do, and to give his mind something other than Zola's face, the motel room and the garage to look at. Every night brought a different street, a different neighbourhood, a different area.

He learnt that New York wasn't really one city. It was a die, with multiple faces, each side showing a different city-face depending on how you rolled it. There were the bright cities: the stately homes, the sweeping drives, the parks, the fountains, the ornately-fronted theatres, the huge billboards and flashy signs, the erudite museums and art galleries. There were the ordinary cities: the seaside rides, the schools, the taxis and the buses, the nightclubs pumping out loud noise that people had been fooled into thinking was music, the men and women in their suave shirts and high heels. And there were the dark cities: the litter-strewn alleys, the unclean takeaways, the gaudy neon signs, the hungry men who begged for food, the twitchy men who begged for money, the women in short skirts and plunging shirts who smiled as they approached until they saw the cold glare of warning in his eyes and backed away, the drunks and the addicts who stumbled in a haze, the youngsters who smashed car windows because they were bored 'or whatevah.'

He saw it all, and everywhere he went, Zola was along for the ride, keeping up a running commentary of how things would be different when Hydra took control. How things would be better. Safer. Happier. How nobody would want for anything, and everybody would know their place. Bucky had heard it so often that it became a drone, like the annoying hum of a wasp that just wouldn't leave him alone.

 _The world would be a better place if I wasn_ _'t in it._

The thought came to him as he walked his usual route to work one Tuesday morning. He was very, very tired. Of everything. The fear of death had been replaced by the fear of continuing each day on a long, slow side into insanity. If all that awaited him was his inevitable return to Hydra's control, what was the point in trying to move forward? It would be better to stop now, and find some way to disappear quietly, forever. Before he could hurt anybody else.

As if hearing his thought—which, if he was merely a figment of Bucky's imagination, he probably _was_ doing—Zola immediately tried to put him off the idea of ending his life.

"You cannot die. You have come too far and done too much for that. Your death would be a terrible waste, even if you could manage it."

Zola had been more annoying than usual over the past day or two, and had taken to reminding Bucky of the 'glorious' missions he'd undertaken for Hydra. But Bucky didn't need to be reminded about the women in Paris, or the man in Cologne who had zero taste in coffee. He remembered them just fine, and they remembered him, too. They still watched him. Waited for him to complete the task they had set for him. Waiting for him to learn the names of everyone he had killed. He just hadn't had much motivation for it, of late, and they had one irritating Nazi scientist to blame for that.

A bus came around the corner of the street and picked up speed. Bucky watched it approach, trying to determine how fast a bus would have to be going to injure him enough to kill him. _Not fast enough_. Broken legs. Broken arms… or, well, arm. Broken back. They were all a too-real possibility. He was tough. Very tough. He'd survived a fall down the Alps and a battle with Captain America, although the latter didn't really count because mountains hit harder than old childhood friends. No, a bus was no good. They stopped too often. Couldn't pick up speed. He'd need something bigger. Something faster. Possibly something driven by Sandra Bullock.

He reached work and changed into his overalls whilst contemplating alternative large road vehicles. Zola was still nagging in the background, about how he couldn't die, about how difficult it would be to end his life, about how much danger he would be in if he only wounded himself and ended up in a hospital, about how the authorities would come swooping down on him at the first sight of a metal arm, and they'd lock him away forever, and Zola would be there for every single minute of that forever until Bucky finally gave up and became the Winter Soldier again.

Much as he hated to admit it, the doctor had a point. He'd already had to get treatment from a vet because he couldn't go to a hospital, and nothing about that had changed. If he wanted to not be in the world anymore, he had to die quickly, before his body could even think about mending itself. Overdosing on anything was out of the question. He'd already tried alcohol, to drown out Zola's voice, but his enhanced physiology had cursed him with an immunity to liquor, as well as to sedatives. What did that leave? Guns? Knives? Starbucks coffee?

As he dropped the hood of the car he'd just replaced the battery on, he eyed up the spare wall socket, into which the power tools were usually plugged. It gave him an idea.

"Hey, Grant." The blond head bobbed up from the hood of a Chevy. "How much juice do you think runs through those things?" he asked, pointing at the sockets.

"Uh, I dunno. A lot?"

"Enough to kill a person?"

A very worried frown appeared on Grant's face. "A kid, maybe. You or me? Well, I dunno. I'm sure it would hurt like hell, though. Why?"

"Just curious."

"You're not planning on sticking your finger in and finding out, are you?"

"No, of course not," he scoffed. Zola had just reminded him that Captain America's red-headed S.H.I.E.L.D. agent friend had tried to zap him with some sort of electrical taser disc, and failed. He was pretty sure his arm would absorb or maybe redirect a certain amount of electrical discharge. Even if the power from a socket blew the arm out, the best he could probably hope for was a trip to the hospital and a hair style that hadn't been in fashion since the '70s.

After work, he went to the harbour, to the spot where he'd sat decades ago with Steve on the day he'd lost Bingo the first time. Zola droned on about how much easier it would be if Bucky just went back to Siberia, back to his family, and let them wipe all this confusion from his poor, broken mind. Bucky ignored him, and looked down into the inky blackness of the water. Then he shook his head, dismissing his latest musing. It wouldn't work. He was too good at floating. Instead, he sat and watched the boats coming up the Hudson.

Night crept in. Out across the bay, he saw pale diamonds in the sky. The stars seemed to secretly wink at him as they slowly rose, before disappearing into the ambient haze of New York's nocturnal brightness. The people in the city didn't know what they were missing. Or maybe they did, and they just preferred to imagine the stars, rather than see them. Either way, it was a shame. It was like New York was disconnected from the world, not really a part of it. Strange, how he could feel empathy for a city.

"You know, if you go back to Siberia, you can see the stars every single night it isn't cloudy," Zola pointed out.

"And forget what they are again?" Bucky sighed. Now that he'd seen the stars, he didn't want to forget them. He didn't want to forget Bingo, or Mary-Ann, or Steve. He didn't want to add to the list of faces that visited him each night, and if he went back now, it was a list that would surely grow.

"Everything dies, Sergeant."

"Yes. Yes it does."

He stood and stretched his legs, then set out in a random direction. A nearby clock tower told him it wasn't even midnight; he could get a few hours of walking done, before heading back to his cubbyhole in the motel room.

His legs took him out to Industry City, along the bare banks of the river. Out here it was all shipping and manufacturing and storage, largely quiet at this time of night, though like the rest of New York, never entirely peaceful. Some of the building signs bore names in Chinese as well as English, whilst others were adorned with Polish or Russian lettering. Graffiti was commonplace: on the buildings, on shipping containers and rusted old caravans. Tram lines, sunk into the floor, had been partially paved over in places, their rusted metal bones slowly giving in to the decay of time.

 _Trains._ Yes, trains were big, and fast, and they couldn't stop like trucks could. They probably hit harder than mountains, too. He'd have to avoid commuter trains. No point inconveniencing people on their way to work. And besides, he didn't like crowds. But freight trains probably came into and out of the city all the time. Tomorrow, he would consult his city map, see where the train lines ran to and from. Yes. Tomorrow was soon enough for him not to be in the world anymore.

For now, with no clear destination in mind, he stepped into an alley between a Chinese-signed building and a store selling safety equipment and apparel. Halfway down the alley, a very small, very familiar sound stopped Bucky in his tracks. It had been months since he'd heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Quite a feat, for America.

Very slowly, he turned on the spot, his hands raised to show they were empty. His eyes adapted to the darkness, making use of every tiny scrap of light. A twitchy-looking man, with a scraggly moustache and a pronounced widow's peak at the front of his mousy-brown hair, held a Colt in spidery hands, the muzzle pointed at Bucky's chest. Within him, he felt the Soldier, who had stirred at the sound of the gun being cocked, settle back down. One twitchy man was not worth waking for.

"Kill him quickly and be gone before anybody notices," Zola instructed him imperiously. Bucky ignored the figment of his imagination.

"Gimme your phone, your wallet and your keys!" the man barked.

"You're mugging me?" Bucky asked.

"That's right."

This was unprecedented. Nobody had ever mugged him before. Nobody had ever _tried_ to. Of course, that sort of thing had happened back in the twenties and thirties, but it wasn't the same. Those had been simpler times. For example, nobody ever got mugged for phones. Nobody _had_ phones. And nobody had ever done it to _him_. Then, Hydra had come with their 'improvements.' On occasion, people had shot at him with a revolver, or a pistol. It usually didn't end well for them.

"What are you waiting for?!" his assailant demanded, looking twitchier by the minute. "Hand everything over, now."

"Oh, sorry. I was just… I mean… wow." It was hard to define his feelings, new and unexpected as they were, but he tried anyway. "I'm being mugged. I feel like… jeez, I dunno… a real person?"

"Hand over your fucking stuff or I swear I'll drop you right here," the mugger warned, his voice a raspy growl.

"Well, I don't have a phone. The only keys I have are for my motel room, and the manager's wife will kill me if I lose those. I think I have ten bucks, though."

"Gimme your whole wallet!" The gun was waved a little, possibly to make him move faster.

Bucky felt his heart sink. He didn't have a wallet. Should he have one? Did he need one? Should he go out and buy one? Maybe a nice leather one. He liked the smell of leather.

Instead of arguing with his assailant, he reached around to the back pocket of his jeans, where he kept what little money he actually carried. Rarely more than enough to buy a pizza, but maybe it would satisfy the twitchy man. Then, mid pocket-grope, he froze. An idea was forming. It didn't feel like total clarity, but it was probably the next best thing.

"Are you my epiphany?" he asked.

"Seriously, I'm going to count to five, and if everything you own isn't on the ground by the time I reach one, I'm shooting you. Five—"

"Can I make a suggestion?" Bucky didn't wait to be invited. "Don't aim for my chest. Aim here," he said, pointing to his forehead. "I don't know if a shot to the chest will kill me."

"Four—"

"I really don't think you should shoot me in the chest. If you hit a rib or just pierce a lung, I'll be pretty annoyed."

"Three—"

"Have you ever even shot anybody before?"

"What the fuck? Of course I've shot someone before. Two—"

"I don't believe you."

The man took a step forward and waved the gun in Bucky's face. "You don't believe me? You hear about that girl they found down by the corner of 23rd and 5th two weeks ago?"

"No."

"Well, that was me. She thought she could give me her purse and I'd let her go with her phone. You don't wanna wind up like her?" The pistol was re-aimed at Bucky's head. "Put your shit on the ground."

Faces danced through Bucky's mind; Mary-Ann, grinning at him on the playground. His mom, poised over the stove as she made her famous casserole. Summer-fling Jane, smiling at him from behind her desk. The girl he'd danced with before shipping out to England, the sparkle in her eyes as infectious as the music in the dance hall. The two women, in Paris. Reality came crashing into the warm, Disney-like haze of feeling like a real person just because he was being mugged, and with it came a grim revelation. _Real people_ got mugged. Got hurt. With that thought, a switch flipped inside his head.

He combined a step forward with a rib-crushing shove from the flat of his cybernetic hand. The man went flying backwards and hit the wall of the Chinese building with such force that he dropped the gun and crumpled to the ground. Bucky didn't even bother kicking the gun away; he merely reached down and wrapped his gloved, metal fingers around the throat of his assailant, lifting the man up the wall and pinning him high enough that his feet dangled above the ground.

"Wrong answer," he growled. The man's eyes were wide, bug-eyed as Zola's. "I had a family, once. A mother. Two sisters. Probably a bunch of cousins I don't remember. I danced with girls, probably more than my fair share. And if anybody did to them what you did to that girl down on the corner of 23rd and 5th, I would do to them what I am going to do to you now."

"I was lying, I was lying!" the man gasped through the slowly narrowing passage of his windpipe.

Bucky let his fingers tighten. His motor control was so fine that he could crush a man's windpipe in seconds, or pin a man beneath the jaw without causing damage at all. Right now, he was going for _slow_. Hydra was all about speed. Efficiency. He'd never watched the life drain from a man's eyes before, never stopped to savour the moment of what had always been 'just a mission', and this one certainly deserved it. Right now, all Bucky saw were delicate, smiling faces swimming in a red mist.

"Yes, yes, good, Soldier," Zola observed happily, as the man frantically scrabbled at Bucky's arm. It was in vain; he was too strong. Much too strong. "This man deserves to die. Exactly the sort of work we made you for."

The doctor's words trickled into his mind, forcing his upper lip back into a snarl. He wanted more than anything to put an end to the man, to see the lights in his bulging eyes dim, but nothing Zola encouraged could possibly be good. The doctor's approval was a stain he knew could never be removed; it would sit there forever, tarnishing his already-blackened soul. He released the pressure in his hand, then lowered the man to the ground. But he did not let go. Not yet. He'd given in to anger, let the Soldier wake for long enough to taste violence, and now it was all he could do to hold that part of himself back. The anger was still there. Raw. A beast ready to be released. Already he could feel his right hand trembling with the effort of keeping that beast in check. His right hand wanted to finish what his left hand had started.

"What are you doing?" The Nazi doctor's voice came out as an angry trill. "He is a criminal! He deserves to be punished."

"Yes, he does," Bucky agreed. "But not by me. That's what the police are for. It's what the courts are for. After everything I've done, all the lives I've taken, I deserve to be punished, too. If I kill him, I'm a hypocrite."

"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry," the pinned man babbled. Tears streamed like rivers down puffy purple cheeks. "Pleasedon'tkillme."

"Shut up," Bucky hissed, and the man let out a terrified sob. "I'm not talking to you."

"If you don't kill him now, he will only go on to hurt more people," Zola said. "What is the life of one criminal? You would be doing humanity a favour."

As he stood there, trying to control his anger, trying not to admit that Zola had a point, trying not to let the Soldier squeeze his assailant's throat just to get him to _shut the hell up_ , he found his epiphany. The little seed of greatness inside his heart, or his soul, or wherever the hell it was, suddenly sprouted, sending out a tiny green shoot. The priest's voice echoed around his head, temporarily drowning out the doctor's petulant mewling. ' _Each of us is capable of great things, but how you get there, how you grow that tiny seed into a tree which reaches Heaven, is up to you._ _'_

"I have a choice," Bucky said at last. He clung to the words, a drowning man clinging to a single lifeline. He turned his head to look at Zola, and finally saw the man for what he truly was: nothing. "The life of one criminal is the cost of my soul. Maybe you're right. Maybe it _is_ my destiny to be the Winter Soldier. But if that's so, then it won't be a destiny of my choosing. I never asked for this. I never wanted it. And I'm certainly not going to start now. If Hydra find me, I'll fight them. To the death, if necessary. I won't let them use me again. I don't care if God has a plan for me. I have a plan for myself, and that involves ending the bloodshed. Forever. And it starts right here. No more killing. I won't add more names to my list, more faces to my nightmares, and I don't care how much somebody might 'deserve' it.

"I've finally got your number, doctor. You can't do anything to me. Not one damn thing. You can't command me. You can't instruct me. You can't control me. You're just a voice in my head. All you can do is talk, and hope that I'll listen. But I can choose not to do that, too. Maybe you're a part of my fractured mind, or maybe you're something Hydra programmed in to distract me from taking back control of my life. Either way, that's all you are. A distraction. I'm done with you."

"You are making a terrible mis—"

"And _you,_ " said Bucky, turning back to the man, granting Zola not another moment of his time. The man gave a snotty whimper. "I can count on one hand the number of people who've pulled a gun on me and survived. I don't know why you go around mugging people, and I don't care. Drugs, prostitutes, starving kids, whatever. If I can stop killing people, _you_ can stop threatening and hurting and stealing from them. There is always another way. Always a third path to take. I learnt that from Robert Frost."

"Yes, yes, I swear I'll change," the man snivelled. "I—I promise I won't mug anybody ever again!"

"I'm glad to hear it." Not that he believed a word the man said. Only God knew how many times he'd lied tonight. "Now. When I was talking to myself just then, you might have heard some things which are very bad for your health—"

"No, I didn't hear anything, I swear!"

"Good. Because if you did…"

"I didn't!"

"Alright." Another memory flashed across his vision, brief as a bird in flight; a pale, slender hand reaching out and grasping a brown, slender neck. A body crumpling to the floor. "Keep still," he told the runny-nosed man. "I've seen this technique demonstrated before, but I don't think I've ever had the opportunity to try it out."

"What tec—"

The man's voice immediately cut off as Bucky adjusted his grip and gave a constant, gentle squeeze with his fingers. Eyes rolled back into his head as the one-handed strangulation hold interrupted the blood supply to his brain. When Bucky let go, the man crumpled, just like the body in his memory. An effective technique, but he wouldn't be out for more than a minute.

When Bucky stepped back and took a deep breath, for the first time in decades he felt like he was actually breathing. Sure, he was breathing the stale, briny air of dockside New York City, but compared to the years of suffocation beneath Hydra's control, it was a drop of cool water on the tongue of a parched mouth.

 _Probably shouldn_ _'t have said all that stuff in front of that guy._

Before the crumpled man could begin stirring, Bucky reached down and picked up the Colt. The Soldier within him told him to cover his tracks, but he was more than the Soldier, now. For too long he had lived as a marionette, his strings tugged over the decades by men who chose power over compassion, control over freedom, death over peace… now they would tug his strings no more. He'd made a choice to be better than that. To be more than somebody else's weapon. Today was the first day that he could stand up and say that he truly was a real person.

He unloaded the ammo clip and let the bullets spill out onto the ground like magic beans. Transferring the gun into his left hand, he closed his eyes and squeezed with every ounce of strength Hydra had given him. Metal complained angrily as it twisted in his grip, shrieking its death song as it gave way to the power in his arm; it was music to the ears.

The river front wasn't far away. Bucky left the crumpled man and, reaching the end of the dock, pulled back his arm and threw the twisted metal as far as it would go. It went a very long way. And now, he had to do the same. He'd been in the city too long; it wasn't his skill that had kept him safe, but sheer dumb luck. It was luck that could not hold forever. Sooner or later, friend or foe would find him. Now he had to go somewhere to figure out who, exactly, those friends and foes _were_.

o - o - o - o - o

 _Join the army. Serve your country. See the world!_

Bucky didn't remember very much about his adult life before the war, but for some reason, the call-to-arms slogans played over and over on his mind in the hours following his misadventures in Industry City. According to Google, the Smithsonian, and a few patchy memories of strong coffee, annoying mosquitoes and long walks through dangerous territory, he'd joined the army. He'd served his country. The history books were very specific about that. Served and died, then come back again. As for seeing the world… he'd served in Europe. Been captured there. Freed. Captured again. The sad fact was, he'd seen more of the world as the Winter Soldier than he had as Bucky Barnes.

It was time to rectify that.

But first, he had responsibilities. Sure, he could just pick up and run. He wasn't a tree; he hadn't put down roots. But one day, he _might_ be a tree. After all, he had a seed now, and he was keeping it _very_ close. He wasn't too sure who'd put it there—the priest, God, Steve, maybe even Bucky himself—but there it was, right in the middle of his chest, where he could take it with him, and nurture it, and maybe one day grow it to Heaven. Hopefully he would do a better job with his seed than he had with his dog. Hopefully he wouldn't run into any hungry giants on the climb. But if he did… he wasn't some wimpy English-man, a tasty morsel whose bones were easily crunched for a quick meal. He'd make sure any giant who tried to swallow him would choke for the attempt.

He packed his bag. Into it went a pair of pants. Couple of shirts. Socks, underwear, a bag of toiletries and his toothbrush, along with all the money he had, which amounted to $25.17. He also packed everything left over from his time as the Winter Soldier. A knife, his protective vest, utility belt, a small grenade that he'd _somehow_ forgotten about when stealing for the first time back in Great Falls…

Finally prepared for his new life, he looked around the room and found it as empty as when he had arrived. With a self-satisfied nod, he stepped out the door.

A few seconds later he went back through the door, into the room, and put down his backpack while he quickly straightened the sheets on the bed. Maybe it was silly, but the last time he could actually recall having slept in a bed was over seventy years ago. Just the opportunity to make one up was a welcome gift, even if he'd not actually slept in it since discovering the catharsis of the closet.

In the motel reception, he dropped the keys onto the desk and pulled on his jacket. The owner's wife glared up at him through narrowed eyes. "I'm leaving," he told her, slipping fluently into Russian.

"So. You have finally decided to become a respectable man?"

"Respectable?" He rubbed his chin as he considered the word. It sounded arbitrary. "I don't know about that. I'm going to start with 'a man' and work my way up from there."

The dragon of a woman _harrumphed_ and took back the keys. "Well then. Do svidaniya. Do not let me keep you from becoming a man. I hope that the next time I see you, it won't be for a room."

"Don't worry. The walls of your rooms are thin, the ceilings are thinner, and the air conditioning is still garbage. I won't be back. Do svidaniya."

There was, he felt, something to be said for brutal honesty. Stepping out into the street, it was as if another weight had been lifted from his shoulders, another breath of fresh air taken into his lungs. Since coming to New York he'd done nothing but shroud himself in lies. He'd tiptoed around people because he didn't want to rock the boat or draw attention, never realising that the lies were burying him alive. From now on, the lying would be minimal. He might _tell_ the lies, but he wouldn't _live_ them. He had seventy years' worth of forgotten truths to explore; now was not the time to become invested in his own webs of deception.

He walked. Then for quite some time, he stood around the corner of Tommy's place, watching Grant roll a car out and bring another in, watching Tommy try to tune the radio back to that classic rock station he loved so much. A few weeks ago, the garage had seemed a mountain. A strenuous climb. A considerable hurdle to be overcome. Looking back across the weeks, across his own memories and experiences… it changed his perception. The garage wasn't a mountain; it was a stepping stone. Perhaps the first one in a string of many. Little challenges to be met head on, to enable him to find a way back to himself.

Shouldering his bag, he crossed the road and stepped into the garage just as Tommy thumped the top of the radio. "Piece of crap," the middle-aged man grumbled.

"Hey," Bucky said, making Tommy jump, just like he had that first day in New York. Grant peered out from behind a pickup truck, both light brown eyebrows rising as he took in Bucky's jacket and bag.

"There you are!" grumbled Tommy. "Do you know what time it is? And have you been jerking around with the radio tuner again?"

"Ten twenty-six, and no, sorry." He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to figure out the best way to quit his job. It was like figuring out how to turn down a woman all over again, but this time he couldn't ask for help. He had to do it on his own, with minimal lying. "Look, Tommy, I'm really sorry to have to do this to you, but I have to go. I got a call, last night." Maybe it had a been a call from God, or maybe a call from his own conscience. Either way, the result was the same. "I have to go home." Had to figure out where home _was._ All he knew was that it wasn't here. "It's my sister… she's dying." Technically true. Everybody was dying, from the moment they were born, and his sister was in the late stages of dementia, so she was probably dying faster than most.

"Jeez, Alex, I'm sorry." Tommy took a deep breath that filled his chest, and ran a dirty hand through his peppered hair. "Of course, you gotta do right by your family."

"Thank you for understanding. I'd like to be able to say that I might come back some day, but you know how it is… nothing is certain, and I don't want to make promises I can't keep."

Tommy nodded, offering his hand. "I'm gonna have to break in a brand new grease-monkey, but we'll manage. You need a reference or anything, just gimme a hollar."

"Thanks."

Grant approached a little more furtively, his blue eyes full of unfeigned concern. It made him look younger. Much younger. He, too, shook Bucky's hand.

"I'm sorry to hear about your sister, man. I hope… well… let me know if you need anything. And if you're ever back this way in the future, feel free to look me up. Maybe we could take a trip over to Fifth Avenue, do a little window shopping."

Bucky gave his first new friend in seventy years the best smile he could muster. "That would be nice. But before I go, there's something I want you to know."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Penny. She likes cats. Identifies with their independence. Also, she doesn't drink coffee. I figure between that, and the Offspring, you have enough to at least get a toe in the door."

"Cats, huh? I guess I can work with that." Grant returned his smile. "Maybe I'll check up on when the Offspring are back in town again, see if I can get my hands on tickets. Thanks, man."

When Bucky left the garage, he didn't look back. Almost every chapter of his life was unfinished. Half-written. In some cases, barely started. It felt freeing, to be able to draw a line beneath one. To leave knowing that he'd done his best and had nothing to regret. Now it was time to read some of the other chapters. To fill his empty photo album with pictures. To put the little seed in the sunlight and see if he could get it to grow.

Time and time again, Hydra had tried to erase who he was, to destroy the man he had been. And each time, they had failed. They hadn't erased his memories, merely suppressed them. Bucky Barnes, best friend to Captain America, soldier in the US army, role-model to children across the nation, might have been put on ice for seventy years, sent into a dark and dreamless slumber, but finally he was beginner to stir. The season was changing. It wasn't Winter anymore. Now, it was Spring.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: If I was writing this story as a trilogy, this would be the end of the first book. Thank you so much to everyone who's read, reviewed and cried so far. Join Bucky for 'book two'; a roller-coaster ride which sees him looking for himself in the present whilst finding himself in his past. Chapter 10 will be up soon.  
_


	10. There's Always A Girl

Running To You

 _10\. There's Always A Girl_

 _Day 5. It_ _'s cold, and it's dark. I don't really mind that. I see things more clearly, in the dark. I'm physically alone, but never without company. I hear things sometimes, too. Whispers, echoing around the hull. I know I'm crazy, because hearing things that aren't there is a sign of being crazy, but it's a good kind of crazy, I think. Like I'm not imagining things anymore, I'm_ remembering _them._

 _I_ _'ve been trying hard to remember my past, but it isn't easy. I don't think this is something that can be forced. The memories come on their own, sometimes triggered by external stimuli, sometimes revealing themselves as dreams. I guess, in some ways, that's a good thing. It's not just my own past that's hidden from me, it's many things I did as the Winter Soldier, too, though those memories aren't quite as far away, not buried quite as deep. Maybe everything's fragmented because my mind knows it can't handle one big info-dump. That so many memories would overload me and send me right back to square one._

Bucky stopped writing as the flashlight beside him began to flicker and fade. He closed the notebook balanced atop his knees and groped inside his bag for new batteries, holding his pen between his lips so that he wouldn't lose it, as he'd lost the last one. Like memories, they were hard to keep hold of.

Before leaving New York, he'd gone on a minor crime spree. Nothing violent or dangerous, just a little petty theft. Victim-less, really, and his need was pretty great. He could make up for it, later. He'd hit a couple of ATMs and taken all the cash they held. After that he'd targeted a convenience store, helping himself to as much food and drink as he could conceivably carry. Finally, he'd found a stationery shop and pilfered half a dozen notebooks and a handful of biros. His mind was patchy, unreliable. It might not hold all of his returning memories, but paper would.

Home was a shipping container in the belly of a huge transport liner en route to Calais. Sneaking aboard in New York had been pretty easy. America was the Land of Opportunity; nobody really considered that anybody would take the opportunity to be smuggled _out_ of it, rather than _into_ it. What little security had existed at the dock had been easily bypassed by the world's most deadly nonagenarian. The first day and night had been spent in total darkness, until curiosity drove him to one of the upper levels, where he'd found a storage cupboard and raided it of a flashlight, batteries and a faded blue woollen blanket.

Avoiding the crew had been relatively easy so far. This was not a luxury ocean liner, it was a cargo vessel manned by less than sixty men who had no reason to come this far down into the hold. To kill time when he wasn't listening to noises of memories or making a few notes, he explored the hold. Some of the containers, like the one he'd chosen to nest in, were empty of items, but most were filled with various non-perishable exported goods protected by polystyrene chips; nothing that was of any interest to him.

More interesting was the first memory that being in the vessel brought back. The memory of being on a different ship crossing the Atlantic, of being surrounded by men who, like him, wore uniforms and carried their lives for the next three years in a duffel bag, who bunked below the deck and tried to keep out of the way of the sailors. The memory wasn't complete, but there was enough of it to get a feel for how things had been back then: tense, nerve-wracking, exciting. They didn't just see it as war, but as adventure, as a chance to make a difference, overthrow evil and avenge the victims of Pearl Harbor. Squeezed into hammocks likes sardines crammed in a tin, they'd coped with the tedium of the Atlantic crossing by playing cards and telling stories of family and sweethearts left behind.

The flashlight flickered again, and Bucky stuck his arm further into the bag, the fingers of his right hand searching blindly for the batteries. He found one and pulled it out, but too late; the beam of light died and darkness enveloped him.

"Damn!" he swore, which caused the biro to fall from his lips. It hit the container floor then rolled before he could pin it down.

He growled under his breath. "Черт!"

At last he found a second battery and replaced the worn ones in the flashlight. The beam of light returned, a cold white light that momentarily blinded him and brought with it the echo of a memory; a tomb-like lid lifting, light spilling in, and a coldness so deep in his bones that he couldn't even shiver. Pain. Biting, aching, stabbing pain that devoured him from inside his own head.

He blinked to recover his vision and his stomach wrenched uncomfortably, a feeling of fear and unease winding through his guts like a serpent hunting for food. This wasn't the first time he'd felt it, but he'd only recently come to associate the feeling with sudden light. Daytime was fine, because it was everywhere. Nighttime was comforting, the darkness an old friend. But sudden light, harsh light, which didn't chase away the shadows but instead caused them… it made the Soldier fidget uncomfortably within him. Nothing good came from the light.

Leaning back, he pulled the itchy woollen blanket up around his shoulders, welcoming the meagre warmth it afforded him. At least his situation wasn't all bad. He was out of the U.S., moving away from the prying eyes of the government and Hydra and the man whose face came more often to Bucky's mind than any other. And his temporary home had its benefits. It was larger than the motel closet, but not so large that he felt lost in it. A nice size, really. Tall enough to stand in, long enough to lie in… there were worse places to live.

He reached out for his notepad, to continue his introspection, but when his fingers brushed against the paper, he left the shipping container and found himself in another place, another time.

 _Flash._

 _"Whadd'ya think?" Bucky whispered, his fingers brushing against the paper as he turned his easel slightly. The rest of the class ignored the sound; their minds were entirely absorbed within their own work._

 _Steve peered at it, his blue eyes taking in every single pencil stroke. With a nod and a smile, he whispered,_ _"It's good."_

 _"Let's see yours."_

 _"Oh, it's not finished yet," Steve objected feebly._

 _"And neither's mine. But that's not the point. C'mon, we both know it's going to be a thousand times better than my chicken-scratching."_

 _"You shouldn't put yourself down, Buck." Steve gestured at the drawing. "It's really good."_

 _"I'm not putting myself down, I'm being honest. I mean look, the apple on the left is kinda wonky. Now stop changing the subject and let's see it. I'm gonna see it eventually, so why not now?"_

 _"Well, alright." Bucky's best friend relented and angled his own easel so Bucky could see it. The fruit bowl pictured in Steve's drawing looked nothing like the fruit bowl on the table in the centre of the classroom. Somehow, Steve had made a picture of fruit look more delicious than the real thing. The two apples, two oranges and three pears in the bowl paled in comparison to Steve's cornucopia. "I embellished, a little."_

 _"A little? You embellished an entire grocery store."_

 _"I guess I got carried away."_

 _Bucky looked back to his own sketch. Technically, it was pretty accurate_ _… but it was nowhere near as beautiful or creative as Steve's. "I'm just awful at this. S'not my fault though, I was a late starter at finger-painting. Didn't even try it 'til I was six. I reckon it stunted my artistic growth."_

 _Steve chuckled quietly, before his eyes turned more serious. Steve_ _'s eyes were often more serious than they ought to have been for his sixteen years._

 _"Look, Buck, you really don't have to take this class just to keep me company."_

 _"I'm not," Bucky scoffed, trying—and failing—to suppress a grin. "I heard everyone who passes this class is eligible to do life drawing in the final year."_

 _"You know that's just a myth, right?"_

 _"Hey pal, this is my bubble, I'd appreciate it if you didn't burst it right away."_

 _Steve held up his hands in self defence._ _"Alright, alright. It's life drawing galore. But being serious for a moment… take a look outside, Buck. Sun's shining, air's as clear as it's ever gonna get, it's a great day for track practice."_

 _"Track practice?" he scoffed. "Don't need it. Drawing practice, on the other hand… Besides, I'm hoping a little of your artistic talent might rub off on me."_

 _A mischievous smile pulled one corner of Steve_ _'s mouth up as he glanced again at Bucky's rendering of a fruit bowl. "You're gonna need more than a_ little _of my artistic talent._ _"_

 _"Hey!" Bucky aimed a faux-glare at his friend and gave him a not-so gentle punch on the arm. The students working on either side of the pair gave them frosty, disparaging glances. Bucky swung his easel back around and pretended to be engrossed in making his apple look a little less wonky._

 _"So," Steve whispered, a few minutes later, "what's her name?"_

 _"Whose name?"_

 _"The girl you're trying to impress with your newfound art skills."_

 _"Why's there gotta be a girl?"_

 _A knowing look stole into Steve_ _'s eyes. "There's always a girl."_

 _"Steve, I'm hurt. Can't a guy spend his Thursday afternoons trying to leech off his best friend's artistic talent without having some sort of ulterior motive?" Her name was Beatrice, but Steve didn't need to know that._

 _Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again when the teacher added her own frosty glare to that of the other students._

 _Flash._

The transitions from memory to reality were growing less jarring, but Bucky still found himself momentarily disoriented as he tried to adjust to being inside a small, dark, cold shipping container instead of a bright, airy classroom. When the feeling of being in two places at once subsided, he grabbed his bag again and pulled out the notebooks he'd stolen. Words had been written across the top of each book, and Bucky put aside _Family, Friends, War, The Dead_ and _Hydra_ , finally settling on _Steve._

Though his memories were still woefully lacking in detail, there were times when he felt Steve belonged in both the _Family_ and _Friends_ books, and couldn't really settle on which was best. In the end, Bucky had decided to dedicate a whole book to the man behind Captain America, since memories of him came most often. It seemed fitting.

Inside the book, he scribbled some rough notes, the first things which came to mind.

 _Had a memory today about an art class back in high-school. Steve was really good at drawing. I joked about being jealous of his talent, but I didn_ _'t get any jealous feelings whilst having the memory. More like… I dunno, maybe it was a conversation we'd had before. Like it was just easy banter and friendly teasing. Learnt something about old-me today. I didn't feel like I had to be the best at everything. I didn't have to put a friend down to raise myself up._

 _Also, I can_ _'t draw apples._

He paused with the tip of his pen poised against his bottom lip. Certain common themes were starting to emerge from his memories. Steve was one of them, but not the only one. He was starting to feel like he should have stolen an extra notebook. Like he should have labelled it _'Girls.'_

 _One thing that I pulled from this memory,_ Bucky continued, _was how Steve didn_ _'t want me to miss out on stuff because of him. He thought I was taking the art class to keep him company. I guess in a way, I was. But it felt like… more than that? Less than that? Hard to explain. I suppose the only way I can think of it, is that I just wanted to do something with my best friend._

He closed the book and put it aside, hitching up the blanket again. For the most part, his memories were very straight-forward, even when they were convoluted and chronologically out of sync. Almost all of his memories, even most of his Hydra ones, were about the past, the people in them long dead. Steve-related memories were more complicated, because Steve was still alive. It wasn't a simple case of just remembering Steve and then missing him, mourning him, like he did his family. The world still had Bucky Barnes in it, and it had Steve Rogers in it, and one day there would be some sort of confrontation, maybe even a reconciliation.

Before that could happen, Bucky needed to know as much as possible. He needed to know everything there was to know about the best friend he'd tried to kill.

o - o - o - o - o

 _Day 20. There was an accident. Yesterday afternoon. Klaus is gone. We still don_ _'t really know what happened, and I think some of the team are still in shock. I can only think it was the rain. Four solid days of rain, and the grapes couldn't be left unpicked any longer. Klaus was close to the tractor… I guess the tractor was too heavy for the waterlogged ground. There must have been some sort of slip, down the hill. What else could make a tractor fall over like that? And his scream… I still hear it. We all do._

 _I saw his leg, when Stefan and Nicki pulled him out_ _… or what was left of it. And the blood. So much of it. Tom keeps washing his hands, even though they're not red anymore. Nicki and Caroline are thinking of leaving, going home. I can't blame them. If I had a home to go to, I'd be there right now. I hope Klaus makes it home. I hope the doctors here can save his life, even if they can't save his leg._

"Hey, Sergei." Pierre's head popped around the door of the men's bunk room. Bucky closed his notepad and looked up. The Frenchman's face was tired, his eyes haunted. Since yesterday, it was an expression the entire team had shared. "Dinner is ready," said Pierre in his native language.

"I'll be right there," Bucky replied in the same.

When Pierre withdrew from the room, Bucky pulled his bag from beneath his bunk and stashed away his notepad. There were some things which couldn't go into _Family_ or _Friends_. Some things which were more than _War_ and _Hydra_. Things which had nothing to do with _The Dead_ or _Steve_. Everyday thoughts, events which happened on his travels, musings and observations which might touch on several subjects but could not be easily pigeon-holed. What he had was a diary, though he didn't write _Diary_ on the front because that sounded a little too much like a teenage-girl thing to do. He'd considered _Journal_ and _Random Thoughts_ , but at last settled for the smallest word he could find to define the sum of his thoughts and feelings. On the front of the diary, he'd written the word, _Me_.

He trudged down the creaky stairs into the communal dining room. Everybody else—save for their absent German friend—was present physically, even if their minds were elsewhere. At one end of the table, Nicki and Caroline, the two women from Coventry, were talking quietly about whether to go home to England now or stay until the end of the picking season. Canadians Stefan and Tom listened to their talk, their usual exuberance muted by the events of the past twenty-four hours. Tom kept rubbing his fingers as if trying to rid them of some stain, but by the unfocused look in his eyes, Bucky suspected the man didn't even realise what he was doing.

The three Frenchmen, David, Pierre and Jabir, sat playing a game of cards, and they were joined by Reuben, the only Dutch man on the team. Bucky took a seat in the middle of the bench at the table, and the seat opposite him remained empty. That had been Klaus' seat.

"What you think, Sergei?" Caroline asked, her French not quite as fluent as others in the group. "You stay here, or you go home now?"

"I'll stay, for now," he replied.

"You not worried about other accident? Maybe is too dangerous to stay."

"What happened to Klaus was terrible, but it was a fluke, and I came here to work." Besides, he had nowhere else to go.

"We are staying, too," Jabir spoke up. "I've been grape-picking every summer since I was fifteen, and I have never heard of something like this happening before. It was a freak accident. Sometimes, these things just happen."

Caroline nodded glumly. When the vineyard manager's wife appeared with a large pot of French onion soup and a tray of freshly baked baguettes, the cards were put away and conversation fell silent.

Grape-picking in the south of France had never been something Bucky considered he'd end up doing, but it was a good way to earn a little money whilst travelling, and most farmers provided food and accommodation for their workers for as long as the vines needed harvesting. For now, that was all he needed.

"So, Sergei," said David, "where will you go after this?"

Bucky shrugged and feigned interest in his soup. Sergei, like Alex Smith, was a cover. After arriving in Calais, he'd been pleased to discover that he could read, write and speak French almost as fluently as English. Hydra had probably done that; the Zola in his memory had said that they would fill his head with knowledge, after all.

Speaking French had been fine until he'd arrived at the vineyard, where he was forced to make a decision. He was clearly not a native Francophone. Anybody listening to him speak English would know within seconds that he was actually American, and the last thing Bucky wanted was the rest of the team prying into his real background. So, he came up with Sergei, a Russian who could speak French but not English, because although Bucky could speak both Russian and English, he didn't think he could convincingly pull off a fake Russian-speaking-English accent without sounding like a dumb American trying to pull the wool over everyone's eyes.

The rest of the team accepted his story without question, and all Bucky had to do was make sure he didn't react to anything the English women and the Canadians said to each other, and be careful that none of the group who shared the men's half of the attic got a look at his notebooks, since that would certainly make for some very uncomfortable questions.

It was all very convoluted, and it made him long for the day when he wouldn't have to pretend to be someone else. When he could be himself—whoever that self really was—and have people be okay with that.

"I haven't thought that far ahead," he admitted. "I guess I'll travel a bit more before heading back to Russia." When he'd left America, it hadn't been with a solid plan in mind. He just wanted to get moving, to see new things and hopefully jog new memories. To maybe find a place where he could comfortably disappear and spend time figuring out who he wanted to be.

"Well, if you want something different, one of my uncles owns a dairy farm outside Bordeaux. He's always on the lookout for extra hands."

Against his own will, Bucky smiled. How very ironic that his last cover had been as a farm-boy from Iowa, and now he was slipping into that role in France.

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

The group fell into silence as they ate, but it wasn't a companionable silence. It was a sad silence, like the muted hush of a funereal wake, each person lost in their own thoughts and memories, reliving or trying to forget the event which had brought them to this deep hush.

"I wonder how Klaus is," Nicki said at last.

Nobody responded. What could they say? Klaus had been an upbeat bear of a man, a couple of inches taller than Bucky, and even broader across the shoulders. He always had a smile on his face and a laugh in his eyes, and over the past few days he'd had the team in tears several times with his impressions of well-known celebrities.

His cheerful personality had made his agonised scream as the tractor fell on him and trapped his leg all the more terrifying. Bucky had been working closest to him, and was first to reach him. There, ankle-deep in mud, clothes already soaked all the way through with pouring rain, he had been forced to realise his own limitations. Strong as Hydra had made him, he hadn't been able to lift the tractor, not even with his cybernetic arm, not even calling upon the Soldier for a little raw aggression. It wasn't until the others had got there, and they'd worked together to tilt the tractor, that they'd been able to drag the man unconscious from beneath the heavy machine.

A human body could only lose so much blood before shutting down, and the tractor had crushed the veins and arteries in Klaus' leg, tearing them like damp tissue paper. Tom and Bucky had done their best to put pressure on the places blood gushed from, but by the time the air ambulance arrived, the ground had been swimming with red.

"Excuse me." Tom pushed himself up and made a swift exit. Everybody watched him go, but nobody went after him. Bucky knew that no words would make the young Canadian man feel any better. Feeling somebody's life bleed out beneath your fingers, being unable to do anything to stop it… it brought a feeling of weakness, of helplessness, that everybody in the group now shared.

 _Flash._

 _A spray of bullets tore through the trees. Reflexes, made sharper through nervous tension, kicked in immediately, and Bucky dropped to the ground, lowering his profile as German machine guns screamed death wails into the air._

 _Shit._

 _The thought ricocheted around his head as the earth in front of him was torn and shredded by the metal spray. All around he heard the other men in the small company from the 107th drop and return fire. Bucky lifted his own weapon and fired at at spot he thought he saw gunfire flash from, but the summer foliage was so dense, the air so choked with dust and dry soil, that he couldn_ _'t tell whether he was actually hitting anything._

 _Intel had really dropped the ball. This was supposed to be a covert op, a surgical strike, shoot-and-smash of a Nazi communications bunker. It wasn_ _'t supposed to be this fortified._

 _He emptied his clip and kept his head down while he reloaded. On the verge of opening fire again, he stopped, listening to something on the edge of his hearing. It sounded like a moan. Like somebody in pain. Carefully, he lifted his head and scanned the ground._

 _There was a body, not far to Bucky_ _'s right, lying supine, and the groan came again, more quietly this time._

 _Shit._

 _He crawled towards the sound of pain, dragging himself with his elbows, pushing forward with his knees. As he reached the body, he saw a bright shock of auburn hair beneath a helmet that had fallen askew. A lightning bolt of fear tore through him from head to toe._

 _"Carrot!" he hissed, reaching out and shaking the man's shoulder._

 _A pair light of blue eyes opened, full of pain and fear._ _"Barnes?" His name came out in a quiet, pained gasp that made Bucky's stomach turn. When Corporal Kenny "Carrot-top" Robbins coughed up a spray of foamy blood, it turned again._

 _"Yeah, it's me."_

 _"I been hit, Sarge."_

 _Bucky didn_ _'t need telling. A crimson patch had blossomed on Carrot's stomach, and it was spreading across his uniform. With a trembling hand, Bucky reached out and tried to put pressure on the wound, but it was like trying to stem the flow of a dam with a wine cork. The only way he could generate enough pressure would be to press from above, with his weight behind him. If he did that, he'd make himself a magnet for the bullets still flying._

 _"How bad is it?" asked Carrot._

" _A flesh wound. You'll walk it off." The lie fell easily from his lips. There was too much blood. And worse, Carrot was coughing it up. Bucky was no medic, but he knew that could only mean one thing. Something was wrong, inside. Something no amount of pressure could fix._

 _Carrot coughed again, struggling for words._ _"You… you're so full of shit, Barnes."_

 _"Don't talk. Save your strength."_

 _The corporal ignored him._ _"Shoulda been… faster."_

 _"You will be. Next time. Now shut up and save your strength like I said. That's an order, Corporal."_

 _A bubble of laugher escaped Carrot_ _'s lips. "You're pulling rank, Sarge?"_

 _"That's right. An' I'm gonna bust you back to Private when we get back to camp if you don't start following orders."_

 _"Sorry, Sarge. Don't think…" he coughed mid-sentence, bringing up more blood, "…you'll get chance to carry on your power trip. Will you… will you do something for me?"_

 _Bucky felt his chest tighten, like someone had just come along with a vice and they were squeezing, and squeezing, and any minute something was gonna give._

 _He wanted to say_ _'no.' He wanted to say 'do it yourself.' Those were the proper things to say. The tough, soldier things to say. If he refused, Carrot would have no choice but to hang in there and see to his own final requests when he recovered. Years from now, after they'd kicked the Nazis blubbing all the way back to Berlin, he and Carrot would meet up in some bar to reminisce about the time Carrot got hit and asked Bucky to do something for him, and how Bucky saved his life by not giving his friend permission to die. And Carrot would thank him for not giving in, for giving him a reason to cling on to the dim spark of life, and he'd show him pictures of his first kid, which would undoubtedly be named after Bucky._

 _"Anything," he replied._

 _"There's… a letter to Samantha, in my footlocker… back at base camp." Carrot coughed again, and it was the only sound Bucky heard. The sound of gunfire, of men shouting, of orders yelled above the hubbub, fell away. The forest fell away. The entire world fell away. "Make sure she gets it?"_

 _"I'll post it myself as soon as I get back. I promise she'll get it."_

 _Carrot nodded, his eyes roving the treetops as if searching for something._ _"Gettin' kinda dark out here."_

 _It was a beautiful summer day._ _"Sun's going down," Bucky lied again._

 _"Barnes?"_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _Carrot took a deep breath, or tried to. It ended in another coughing fit. When Carrot_ _'s eyes found Bucky's face, he tried to make it neutral, to wipe away whatever feelings it was betraying._

 _"Don't want… your ugly mug… to be the last thing I see. Want… to see Samantha again. She's… she's in my breast pocket. Closest… I could get… to my heart."_

 _Bucky reached for the man_ _'s pocket. Carrot had been there, on the ship which had brought them over from New York. He'd had the hammock three down from Bucky's. Every night he brought out the picture and just looked at it, as if afraid he might forget what she look like if he went a day without seeing her._

 _Samantha was a beautiful girl, her blonde hair styled into loose curls, her eyes sparkling with so much life that it seemed to flow out from the photograph. The other men had joked that she must be blind, to be engaged to Carrot, but he took the teasing in good stride, knowing what everyone who_ _'d ever been in love knew; that he was the luckiest man in the world._

 _Carrot didn_ _'t have the strength to lift an arm and hold the picture, so Bucky held it for him. He did his best to hold it still, to make his hand stop shaking, to keep the picture high enough for Carrot to see, high enough to keep it away from the blood._

 _A smile appeared on Carrot_ _'s face, the pain disappearing from his eyes as they fell on the girl he'd made a promise to marry. For the first time since arriving at the front, Bucky was glad that he hadn't found_ the one _yet, that none of the girls he_ _'d danced with and kissed had ever had that special something which made him want to stop chasing, that when the other guys in the company talked about their loves waiting back home, he could only listen with a little envy. At least if he didn't make it back home, he wouldn't be breaking a heart._

 _"My angel," Carrot whispered. "Tell her…"_

 _The words died with him. The person he had been faded away, leaving behind an empty shell._

 _Flash._

"I think I'm going to turn in." Bucky stood and pushed his bowl back from the edge of the table. A couple of the team wished him goodnight, but there was little feeling behind the sentiments.

Alone again in the attic shared by the men, Bucky kicked off his boots and lay back on his bed, using his right arm as a pillow. The onion soup sat uneasily in his stomach as his body relived the sensation of being torn. Of not wanting the horror of staying and watching a man—a friend—die, but not wanting to leave Carrot to die alone. That was one of the unspoken rules of war that nobody ever mentioned but everybody agreed upon. You didn't leave a man to die alone.

Poor Carrot. Twenty-one, his whole life ahead of him, a beautiful girl waiting for him to get home and marry her… the war had stolen his life, just as it had stolen the lives of millions of other soldiers. Just like it had stolen Bucky's. Hydra might have wiped his mind, but it was war that had sent him there. He'd signed up. Could still remember the pride he felt at doing his bit. He'd been so naïve. The war had needed to be fought, but the glossy posters and the infomercials had glamourised it. _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori._ Made it into an action movie. Hadn't warned of the true hell waiting on the front lines.

He pulled the _War_ notebook out of his bag and wrote down everything he remembered about Carrot. A pang of regret jabbed painfully into his stomach; he never found out if Samantha got her letter. He'd sent it as promised, and then been captured by Hydra for the first time only a couple of months later. After that, he'd had no thoughts about letters.

At the end of the chapter, he made a note to himself. To, one day, when he was fixed and whole, find Samantha and discover what had become of her. It was the least he could do, for the memory of his comrade in arms.

o - o - o - o - o

 _Day 39. The city is beautiful. Too beautiful. I don_ _'t belong here. I feel like people look at me and can see past my clothes and see beneath my skin, right down inside me to the terrible things I've done. And I walk amongst them, the beautiful people and the perfect people… all I see is how small I really am. How far I have yet to go before I deserve to be in a place like this. I'm not allowed to have nice things, or beautiful things. That is what the dead tell me. Until I remember them all, until I know them all, until I've found a way to make amends for every spot of blood on my hands… until that time, places like this are too good for me. I have to earn the right to be here. Tomorrow, I'll move on. I'll never find any peace here and was stupid to even think that I might._

It was late September, and the weather still pleasantly warm. The café's outdoor pavilion was crammed full as the city's inhabitants took advantage of the fine warm spell. Bucky sat alone at a small table, pen poised above his notepad as he tried to decide whether there was anything else he needed to put down. In the streets, the rest of Geneva went about its daily business, ignoring him completely.

The decision to come to Switzerland had been practically been made for him. From France, the only other options were Spain, which he deemed too touristy, Italy, where he already knew he didn't speak the language, Belgium, which sounded boring, or Germany, which, following the memory of the death of Carrot at the hands of German machine guns, did not appeal. His only other alternative had been to hop across the channel to England. He considered it briefly, but then decided it would be too difficult to escape from a small island if his identity was made. Besides, he figured it would be a good idea to try and move _away_ from the overpopulated nucleus of western Europe. Less people meant fewer prying eyes and, more importantly, less CCTV.

To kill time until he could return to the hostel where he'd chosen to lodge, he ordered another coffee and reviewed some of the previous entries from his notebook, refreshing his memory of the events he'd recorded. If he refreshed his memories often enough, it would ensure they stayed permanent. Eventually, they would become so much a part of him that nobody, not even Hydra, would be able to take them away from him.

 _War_ was by far the darkest of the books; darker, in some ways, than _Hydra_. What Hydra had done to him was personally horrific, certainly, but _War_ pipped it by virtue of the fact that it had happened to _everyone_. Not just soldiers, but civilians, too.

 _"...the day we lost the poker championship to the Screaming Eagles, we got news from Sicily. The Seventh Army, under Patton, took Palermo two days ago. Phillips said this was it, the start of our real campaign. "Real" campaign? What did he think we'd been doing there for the past two months? What did he think Carrot had died for? Wells said Phillips was just eager for new orders. Didn't know what those orders would be, but Wells thought there was only one order that could come, now that Sicily was ours: march into Italy. Take it by force. Can't say I was sad to see the back of France."_

 _"...the worst thing was the suspense, each time a plane flew overhead. Was it one of theirs? One of ours? I still got the urge to duck and run for the trees every time I heard one. Like trees were going to stop bombs…"_

 _"...We walked for sixteen hours straight. Just after dawn, Wells grinned and said, 'We just crossed over the border. We're in Italy now, boys!' I asked him how he knew. He said, 'I got a hankerin' for some pasta.' It was the first time the 107th had laughed since we lost Franklin and Davies."_

 _"...Tipper went out on a recon with Gusty and Biggs. Tripped a mine. Glad I wasn't there to see it. Gusty brought his tags back, all twisted and charred. I remember hoping that when it was my time to go, I just got shot. At least there'd be something to bring back and bury."_

 _"...I remember feeling numb, and that scared me more than anything. Hearing names, gettin' the latest casualty lists… and being so desensitised to the loss that I couldn't even feel sad. Like I was losing a little bit of what made me human every time a new list was posted."_

Even here, in the middle of sunny, pleasant Geneva, the thoughts haunted him. He could recall them now with such perfect clarity that he kinda wished he couldn't, wished they were still hazy, still just a foggy blur.

Perhaps it had been a coping mechanism. Was there only such much sadness and loss and death a human mind could experience before breaking down? Was that why he had become numb to it all? Had the other men in his company felt the same? They had never talked about it, not that he could yet remember, anyway. Talk about family, talk about friends, about the girl back home or the ones you regretted letting slip away, talk about how the guy three tents down would trade a pair of new socks for a pack of smokes, the meals your mom used to make, your favourite baseball team or that boxing match you'll never see the likes of again. But talk about the loss? Talk about how heavy that sat on you? No. Never. Don't open the floodgate because then it'll never stop.

The _Hydra_ book of memories was the same, yet different. Only now, looking back and really reading what he had written, did he understand why. _War_ was in the past. Hydra was still present. He hadn't even realised he'd lapsed into a different tense.

 _"...they come again, carrying small sticks of pain. Five of them, this time, and they don't hold back. The first two are dealt with easily. I throw the third into the fourth and take the weapon of the fifth, use it against him. They lay on the ground, groaning, trying to push themselves up to their feet. I look up at the man watching from outside, look to see if there are new orders. There are none. The man seems pleased. And I feel… nothing."_

 _"...worst of all is the chair. Each time I see it I hear something scream inside me. Something that shouts 'no, no, no!' over and over and over again. But there are fingers inside my head, voices instructing me, and I can't disobey. I can't even object. I don't know why the silent voice screams. I just know that the cold, metal chair… it means pain. Pain, and more."_

 _"...one time, I object to the chair. How many times have I been forced into it? I don't remember. But I don't understand why they make me sit there. I carry out my mission. The mission is successful. I can't remember my past missions, but I know they have been successful, too. And yet there is always the chair. Why? It feels like punishment. What have I done wrong? Why does success equal pain? If I was to fail a mission, would the chair not come? But no… the thought of failure, that hurts too. How can I be less than what I am? In the end, it doesn't matter. Even when I object, it doesn't matter. I fight back, and they hurt me until I can't even lift my head. Then they pick me up and put me in the chair anyway. Easier not to fight it. Just get it over with. Let it take me."_

 _"...they take my arm off my body. An 'upgrade', they call it. I look down and don't recognise myself. The me that I am has two arms, but now I only have one. It doesn't last very long. They bring my arm back with some improvements, put it back on. Then I'm me again."_

 _"...sometimes I see things. Faces. Buildings. Colours. Sometimes there are voices, too. I try to ignore them. If the guards see me look at the faces, respond to the voices, they call the doctors, and they take a look at me and put me back in the chair. The best thing is to ignore the faces and voices flashing through my head. It's not easy. I have to look. I have to listen. When I wake up, I forget them."_

Despite the differing content, the two notebooks shared one common theme. In _Hydra_ , his memories told of a man—if he could even be called that—alone, one Soldier amongst a contingency of guards and doctors and handlers who either feared him or disdained him. There had been not a shred of humanity anywhere to be found in that place. Not in the guards, not the doctors, and certainly not what had been done to him.

And in _War_? A man alone, one soldier amongst comrades, united by the horrors of the gruelling campaign, isolated by the need to remain strong. There was humanity there, in the actions of men who braved their own lives in the name of freedom, who risked themselves to save their brothers-in-arms… and yet in some ways, he had been almost as emotionally shut-down as when they'd wiped his mind and called forth the Soldier.

Bucky couldn't decide which was worse; knowing that he'd done it to himself, to try to protect himself from the horrors of war, or knowing that it had been done to him, so that he could become an unquestioning weapon.

 _Never again,_ he promised himself over a cup of cappuccino and a crispy biscotti cookie. _I spent the war trying to be strong, stopped myself tryin_ _' to feel too much in case it broke me. Then I spent seventy years barely feeling a damn thing. Well, that's over now. Like the killing. Now, I'm free to do whatever I want. I can feel stuff, and it doesn't matter if it breaks me, because I'm already broken. Maybe now I'm broken, I'm actually strong enough to handle all that stuff I couldn't think about before. I can't be afraid of feelin' things. I took it for granted first time around, and they took that from me._

His silent promise made him feel… more like a person. After Washington, going from _Nothing Hurt_ to _Everything Hurt_ had nearly torn him apart, but he'd got through that and now he would get through this. It was okay to hurt. Nobody had ever told him that. In the twenties, the thirties, the forties, men had been men and women had been women. _Buck up. Be strong. Don_ _'t show fear. Real men don't cry._

There were exceptions. Great pain, death of a loved one… possibly your home team losing the World Series. But those situations were few and far between. The rest of the time, a man was expected to be stoic. Now, Bucky gave himself permission to be hurt, and sad, and all those other things that had been denied to him by Hydra. If that made him look weak, or less than a real man, he didn't care. Only somebody who had been robbed of the opportunity to feel anything at all, could possibly understand how good it felt to feel _anything_ , even overwhelming sadness.

He put the two notebooks back in his bag and let his eyes settle on _Family_. It was the book with the least information in it, because memories of them were brief and sporadic. He'd started a small family tree in the front—more like a family bonsai, until he could fill it out more—and had managed to add a few names of his siblings' children, as recalled from his previous Google searches. In there was the memory of Christmas eve, along with the loss of Bingo.

 _Steve_ had more entries, but only the first five or six pages had been filled, and Bucky knew there was more, much more, yet to come. Like _Family_ , recollections of Steve came intermittently, his mind preferring to torture him with memories of dark times, letting the light filter through occasionally as a way of teasing him into getting his hopes up. But he could live with that, because sooner or later he would run out of dark things to remember. Eventually he would find all of the people he had killed, and he would remember their names. When all of that was done, when his memories of seeing death, and dealing it, were well and truly over, there would be only _Family_ and _Steve_ left, and he kinda thought those things were worth waiting for. _Save the best_ _'til last, right?_

He put away both books, and with them went _Friends_ and _The Dead_. Those, he worked on when he was able. Sometimes the memories came prompted by events which ended up in _War_ or _Hydra_. Sometimes he learnt more from a day spent in front of a computer in whatever internet café he happened to come across. If those books were not yet as full as _War_ and _Hydra_ , at least they were not quite as empty as _Family_ and _Steve._

At four o'clock he left the café and decided on one last look around Geneva before heading back to the hostel, which he currently shared with a group of Australian backpackers. They were a decent enough group, if a little fond of drinking into the early hours, but they did have one thing going in their favour; they didn't care about anything happening in America. To them he was Alex Smith from Iowa, and after he'd told them how boring Iowa was, they didn't ask any further questions. It probably helped that he'd sneakily distracted them with a pack of beers he'd picked up from the supermarket during his first night in the hostel. They'd toasted his health and accepted everything he said at face value, after that.

The hostel was in Paquis, near the banks of the Rhône, and for a while Bucky contented himself with wandering and window shopping of the _actual_ window variety. He'd come to Switzerland expecting to practice his German, and only discovered after arriving in Geneva that he'd landed himself in the French-speaking half of the country. It wasn't a problem, but in some ways it felt like an extension of France, only a little cleaner in most places. Paquis itself was one of the less reputable neighbourhoods, but even the seediest area of Geneva paled in comparison to the most dilapidated neighbourhoods in New York.

At the corner of Rue de Levant and Rue de Zurich, he stopped dead as a splash of red caught his eye. A sleek car was parked in a private bay a little further down the road, and the sight of it brought a smile to Bucky's lips. Grant would be swimming in a puddle of his own drool right now if he could see the Ferrari outclassing everything else on the street. Bucky walked up to the car and then walked around it, taking a good look from all angles, being careful not to look at it _in the wrong way,_ since under all that shiny red exterior and black leather interior, it was still Italian engineering, and who knew what would set its alarm off?

He clocked a woman stepping out of a nearby hotel and a man walking towards her with his hands in his pockets, but he paid them only enough attention to be sure neither was the owner of the car. He wasn't doing anything wrong, there was no harm in looking, and a guy who owned a car like this _clearly_ wanted it to be looked at. Otherwise he would have bought a Volvo. _Shame I don_ _'t have a phone, or a camera, or any contact details for Grant. He woulda got a kick out of this._

A scream pierced the air, and a voice called out in French. "Help! Somebody help!"

Bucky's head was up even before he'd heard the words. The woman from the hotel was wrestling for her bag with the man who had tried to grab it from her. As Bucky watched, the man made one final attempt, spinning and knocking the woman to the floor as he literally pulled it from her grasp. The thief obviously hadn't spotted Bucky admiring the Ferrari; he turned and ran back down the street as soon as the handbag was his.

The Winter Soldier began analysing the _risk vs reward_ outcomes of interfering. Bucky was running even before the Soldier had finished calculating the odds of becoming entangled in a police investigation. A small surge of adrenaline gave him the burst of speed required to intercept the thief, and he collided with the man near the hotel corner, body-slamming him into the wall. The Soldier advised him to use overwhelming force, to ensure one hit was all it took for his target to go down and stay down. Bucky restrained himself, putting a leash on Hydra's long years of forced training. This wasn't an assassination, it was an intervention, and the words 'non-lethal' and 'gentle' were not in the Soldier's vocabulary. Bucky had to be the conscience for both of them, and it was a conscience that didn't need more blood on it.

The thief recovered and took a swipe at Bucky, the panic in his brown eyes betraying the fact that he hadn't expected this outcome; he'd picked a target he thought was weak, not anticipating a fight. Bucky easily dodged the swipe and dealt him a relatively light right-cross that knocked him dazed to the ground. The handbag dropped from his grip, and Bucky stooped down to retrieve it. Further up the street, the woman was picking herself up from the floor, aided by two hotel staff who'd heard her scream. Her pale face was terrified as she looked at the dazed thief.

"Here," Bucky said, holding the bag out to her. "I think this is yours."

"Oh! Merci, monsieur!" she said. She clutched it to her chest as if cradling her firstborn child. "How can I thank you?"

"You just did," he assured her. Seeing the gratitude in her eyes as the colour returned to her cheeks was enough. And it felt good, to do something right after so many long years of doing everything wrong.

"But… you must at least let me give you something, or buy you dinner, or—"

"Really, it's not necessary. I just did what anyone would have done."

"Not everyone, I think." She reached for his hand and held it in both of hers. "You, monsieur, are a hero today."

 _Flash_.

 _BANG BANG BANG._

 _"Barnes!"_

 _Bucky opened one eye, squinted at the daylight pouring in through the open curtains, closed his eye and rolled over in bed._

 _"Barnes, you lazy son of a bitch!" a cheery voice called through the door. The banging repeated, each BANG making Bucky twitch where he lay as it pounded inside his skull. "Don't make me break down this door and drag your ass out of bed, boy. I'm not your mom and this isn't your palace back home."_

 _With a groan, Bucky pushed off the eiderdown quilt and slid out of bed, his feet landing with a heavy_ thud _on the wooden floor. Some people just didn_ _'t know the meaning of R &R. When he opened the door, he found himself looking into Dugan's grinning face. The man was a maniac. An actual maniac. He was one of the few people Bucky had met who hadn't had his soul dragged backwards through hell by the action on the front lines. Genuinely, a maniac._

 _"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Bucky groaned at him._

 _"Do_ you _?_ _" Dum Dum countered. "Damn near three o'clock, Barnes. Cap's meeting us at the Whip & Fiddle in two hours. We figured you might need that time to do your hair and get your makeup on."_

 _"Three o'clock?" A quick glance at the clock on the wall told him Dugan was telling the truth. An even quicker glance in the mirror showed him the image of a man who looked like he'd just gone ten rounds in a ring. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"_

 _Dum Dum snorted, the air rushing through his generous moustache._ _"We figured you had a girl up here." He stuck his head into the room and glanced around it. "You have her hidden under the bed, right?"_

 _"You're an ass. Gimme ten, and I'll meet you down in the lobby."_

 _"Take twenty," Dugan grinned. "Wouldn't want you to rush your lipstick."_

 _Bucky closed the door on the strongman and took a deep, steadying breath. Dugan told a good tale, but Bucky knew the truth. They let him sleep all day because Austria had hit him hard_ _… harder than any of the others. Walking back to the Allied camp after being rescued by Steve had taken every ounce of strength he could call upon, and had damn near killed him. Dum Dum, Gabe and the others… they'd recovered quickly. By the time they got to London, they were almost back to full health, the horrors of the Hydra workhouse put firmly behind them._

 _But not Bucky. He woke up at nights with the shakes. Sometimes felt his pulse race, like he_ _'d been running a marathon even when he was sat down doing nothing but talking shit with the guys. War hit some soldiers harder than others, but this felt like more than that. First night in London, he'd tried to bury the memories of what he'd experienced alone on the table in a flood of beer. Hadn't worked. Switched to scotch, the finest single malt he could order. Five or six glasses later, and he'd found himself a pleasant haze to swim in. But that had been nearly two weeks ago. Now, five or six glasses was a warm-up. Now, it took the bottle to reach the haze. And Dugan and the others, they'd seen that, too._

 _He made his way to the washstand and splashed cold water onto his face, letting it shock his mind fully awake. He threw on the first shirt he came across, and pulled his dusty jacket over it. When he met his reflection in the mirror, it looked no better than when he_ _'d first woken. His face had tinge to it that he could only describe as 'ashen'. There was a tiredness in his eyes that wouldn't leave no matter how much he slept, and a tightness around them thanks to a perpetual, dull headache that had nothing to do with last night's bottle of Islay._

 _"You," he told his reflection, holding up an admonishing finger which was echoed back to him,"need to pull yourself together. You're not on that table anymore. You're not back on the front. What, you think you're the only soldier to get a little shell-shock? To have nightmares? At least you weren't in one of those Jap POW camps. Get it together. Your friend needs you, and you're not done yet."_

 _He gave his hair a quick comb, then left the hotel room and made his way down into the lobby. Not all of the men rescued from the Hydra base were here; most had been sent home, to recuperate. Phillips had wanted to send Bucky home, too, but Bucky had adamantly refused to be sent back, and Steve had finally intervened on his best friend_ _'s behalf. A personal request from Captain America seemed to carry more weight than Bucky's feeble protests that he wasn't too injured or shocked to keep fighting with the rest of the capable hands recovered from Austria. Phillips was an ass, too._

 _Only Dugan was present in the hotel lobby._ _"Sent the others on ahead to get in a first round," the big man explained. "Don't worry, we'll catch 'em up. Just promise me one thing."_

 _"What's that?"_

 _"You'll follow each scotch with a chaser."_

 _"Fine, whatever," he sighed. Dugan held the lobby door open for him like he was a dame or something, but Bucky was too tired to object._

 _The people of London walked around like chunks of their city hadn_ _'t been recently Blitzed into little pieces. They casually ignored the rubble of bombed homes not yet rebuilt, seemed not to see the crews of men working to repair the few tube stations that had been hit. They just went about their business like it was perfectly natural to have a row of buildings reduced to rubble, a glaring gap in the skyline, whilst the buildings around remained undamaged. He'd even heard a couple of people say that they missed the nightly air raids, the chance to get down into the tunnels and catch up with friends whilst the Luftwaffe tried to actually hit something worth a damn. But that was the English for you; they were as crazy as Dum Dum._

 _"Got any idea what the Captain wants to talk to us about?" Dugan asked, as the Whip & Fiddle appeared at the end of the street._

 _Bucky shrugged._ _"Your guess is as good as mine." He already knew what it was about. Brass were finally starting to take Steve seriously. The men he'd rescued, the equipment and intel he'd brought back… suddenly, the star-spangled man wasn't just a guy in tights good for selling bonds and starring in propaganda movies; he was a credible threat to the Nazis._

 _Steve had come to him the night before, dragging him out of the Fiddle, forcing him to abandon the last glass of Islay, ostensibly under the guise of helping his completely wasted best buddy get back to the hotel_ _… but Bucky could walk a straight line despite his best attempts to reach the bottom of the bottle, and Steve's thoughts had been elsewhere._

 _'Phillips finally wants to put me to use,' Steve had said._

 _'Bout damn time,' Bucky told his friend._

 _'For the first time in this war, we can get the jump on Hydra.'_

' _By 'we' you do of course mean Allied Bomber Command, right? You know how those fly-boys are just itching to hit something worthwhile.' A group of RAF pilots had stopped by the Fiddle a couple of nights ago, complaining about how boring it was up there, how the Luftwaffe were barely giving them a challenge. They'd also made some rather disparaging comments about the quality of the Fiddle's most recent clientele… so Dum Dum had punched one of them, starting an impromptu bar brawl which had ended in a stalemate when the red-headed barmaid who was sweet on Dugan stepped in and threatened to ban them all for life._

 _'This is what I'm here for, Buck.' Steve's eyes still had that wispy quality about them. He was still looking to fight the good fight. He hadn't been on the front long enough to know there_ was _no good fight_ _… only fight. He hadn't been there, at Azzano. Hadn't lived through the facility in Austria. 'This is what I was_ made _to do. But I can_ _'t do it alone.'_

 _'Twenty bucks says you could,' he quipped to his friend._

 _'Maybe,' Steve had grinned, momentarily looking like his old, self-conscious self. 'But even if I_ could _do it by myself, I don_ _'t_ want _to. Phillips wants to give me a real command, and I think I_ _'ve got the right guys in mind for my team, but I wanted to get your feel for what they might say. You've known them longer than I have.'_

 _'Who'd you have in mind?'_

 _'Dugan, Falsworth, Morita, Dernier and Jones. They came outta Austria the best off, and I can see them working together as a team. What do you think? Would they wanna follow me, maybe take the chance to strike back at Hydra?'_

 _Bucky had scoffed._ _'Probably. But I should warn you… I think they might be crazy. There's one way to tell for sure.'_

 _'And what's that?'_

 _'Ask 'em to join your team. Anybody who says yes is a bonafide madman. Think you could cope with that, leading a team of crazy soldiers?'_

 _'I think you've had too much scotch. But there's one other guy I want on my team, and that's you.'_

 _'Me?' Bucky snorted. 'I'm definitely crazy. You don't want me on your team.'_

 _'Will you at least think about it?'_

 _'Of course. Gimme a day or so to get my head around the idea, alright?'_

 _He_ _'d told Steve that he'd think about it, but what was there to think about? Steve'd had a taste of war; now he was about to get a full meal of it. All the Carrots and the Davies' and the Franklins and the Tippers and the Wells'… Steve hadn't had them yet, but if he went to war against Hydra, he'd get them. There was no way in hell Bucky could let his friend go through all that alone, even if it meant throwing himself into the breach once more._

 _"Here we are," said Dugan, pulling Bucky out of his night-before reverie. He stopped outside the front door and used his fingertips to smooth the ends of his moustache. "How'd I look?"_

 _"Like a large, hairy, ginger slug attacked your face and still hasn't figured out how to let go."_

 _"A sight better than you, then," Dum Dum grinned, giving his bowler hat a jaunty tilt. "Lovely Lizzie likes a man who cleans up well. Most girls do, Barnes. Keep that in mind for tomorrow night, and remember; chasers after each scotch."_

 _"Yes mom."_

 _Dugan pushed the door open, and Bucky followed him inside. The Fiddle was always crowded. The British government had wisely decided not to ration beer along with everything else, and even the Germans hadn_ _'t been heinous enough to target Scotland's distilleries. London might be hungry, tired and in pieces, but at least they still had plenty to drink._

 _"Well, if it isn't London's favourite pair of trigger-happy Yanks," said the barmaid, when she spotted the duo arrive. "If you boys are as thirsty as your friends over there, I can see I'll have a busy night ahead of me."_

 _"We only drink so much to keep you in a job and make you smile, Lizzie," Dugan grinned, making a beeline for the bar._

 _"Scotch," Bucky said, to the barman. When he noticed Dum Dum twirl one end of his moustache around his finger, he added, "Make that a double."_

 _Was there anything available to drink that was stronger than scotch?_

 _"And he'll have a ginger beer, for his second drink," Dugan instructed. Bucky rolled his eyes._

 _"Aww, let him have his scotch," Lizzie laughed, coming to his aid. "From what I hear, you all deserve to drink as much as you like. You're all heroes."_

 _Flash._

Bucky looked down, into the eyes of the woman and blinked several times. He pulled his hand from hers and stepped back, trying to remember what had just happened and where he was. _Geneva_. Yes, this was Geneva, not London. He wasn't recovering from his time at a Hydra base, he was trying to get back his memories of his life. He was travelling Europe, and had just stopped a crime.

"I agree," one of the hotel staff said. "We are lucky you were here; we would never have caught up to him in time. We have already called the police, and they will be here to pick him up very shortly." Bucky followed the man's eyes, to where the thief lay dazed on the ground, watched over by a hotel doorman. "Please, for saving the personal belongings of one of our guests, allow us to treat you to dinner in our restaurant."

Police? Dinner? No. Too risky. Too much. He'd just wanted to do the right thing. He didn't need reward; it was atonement he sought.

"Thanks, but I have to get to the train station… I was actually on my way to the airport," he lied. "My flight's in a couple of hours."

"Ah, a shame! If you leave us your details, for the next time you are in Gen—"

"I won't be coming back," he interrupted quickly. This was taking too long. His ears had already picked up a police siren approaching. It was time to go. "Sorry, can't stay, I don't wanna miss my flight," he said, and trotted away from the scene.

"Thank you again, monsieur!" the woman called after him.

Several streets away, he found himself alone and finally relaxed. Part of him expected to look around and see the _Fiddle_ , see rubble strewn around compliments of the Blitz. Part of him expected to hear the sound of police officers chasing him down for a statement. He took several deep breaths and leant back against the wall, trying to clear his mind.

Glad as he was that his memories were coming back in such vivid detail, the ramifications were also a little worrying. What if they came back whilst he was doing something dangerous, or which required concentration? What if a memory came back so rich in detail that he couldn't adapt quickly enough to reality? Was this the first time he'd had a memory in the middle of a conversation like that? He closed his eyes and tried to think back. How long had his memory taken? Had he gone blank for just a few seconds, or for minutes? His memory of London felt like it had taken half an hour, but surely he couldn't have been 'gone' from reality for that long… could he?

Uncertain and concerned, he set off back towards the hostel. The memories, at least for now, were out of his control. All he could do was try to adapt as quickly as possible to their recollection. But on the bright side, at least he had something new to add to _Friends_ before leaving Geneva behind.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: Flashback within a flashback… that's like, sixteen flashbacks!_


	11. Barter

Running To You

 _11\. Barter_

 _Day 50. There_ _'s a memory in my head that I want more than anything, but I don't know how to get to it. It's a memory that started back in New York, when I was deep in my own personal pit of darkness, of Christmas Eve when I was eleven years old. That memory took me to the church, but now I want to go_ beyond _that. I want to remember Christmas Day with my family. Hell, it doesn_ _'t even have to be that particular Christmas; I'd settle for any. I just want want one. Is that too much to ask for?_

"Alex, are you nearly ready?"

Bucky quickly put away his notebook and grabbed his jacket from his bunk. When he opened the bedroom door, he found Carrie waiting outside, checking her watch with an air of impatience. When he stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him, she flicked her long blonde ponytail over her shoulder.

"I was beginning to think you'd fallen asleep," she said in an accusatory Australian twang, though her brown eyes shone with humour. "C'mon, the museum guide says you need at least four hours to see everything."

"I'm actually okay with not seeing _everything_ ," he replied. "I don't know if I even _like_ modern art. Isn't that just people throwing a load of garbage together and claiming it has some deeper socio-eco-political-whatever meaning?"

"Yeah, but some of it's nice to look at."

He didn't bother arguing. He wasn't expecting to enjoy the museum, but then, he'd already seen the best ones Zurich had to offer. He would have been quite happy to give this one a miss, but his temporary travelling companions had convivially pestered him into going along with most of their plans, which had left him little time for writing in his notebooks or researching his own past.

"Where's Kim?" he asked.

"Downstairs, uploading all those pics from the _Rietberg_ to free up some space on her card." Carrie rolled her eyes. "You know she'll positively die if she can't take five hundred pictures in every museum."

Bucky nodded. Kim was particularly artsy; she would have gotten on well with Steve, circa 1935. She and Carrie were the only two of the six Aussies who wanted to spend their potentially last day in Zurich inside a museum, rather than inside a pub, and Carrie had wheedled Bucky into going with them.

Down in the hostel's communal living room, they found Kim waiting with arms folded across her chest, one foot tapping impatiently. "There you are!" she twanged in irritation. "Don't you know it takes five hours to see everything in the _Haus Konstruktiv_?"

"I thought it was four hours?" Bucky countered.

"Only if you're some sort of uncultured troglodyte with the attention span of a goldfish. Really, the guidebook recommends six, so we're already cutting it fine. C'mon, let's go."

Kim didn't wait for an objection; she was out the front door and halfway down the street in the blink of an eye. With a grin, Carrie looped her arm through Bucky's—he'd learnt that no matter how strong he was, he just couldn't seem to shake her off—and they followed the impatient woman as she set a swift march, dodging tourists and natives alike.

Zurich was like Geneva in the same way that New York was like Washington. The affluent city sprawled upward and outward, the buildings a fusion of classic and modern architecture hugging the shore of Lake Zurich, whilst in the distance the snow-capped Alps presided ominously over the landscape, silently promising a change in weather. Already there was a crispness in the October air which Bucky suspected would soon bring snow.

It hadn't been his own idea to come here, but when he'd mentioned to the Australians who shared the hostel in Geneva that he would be moving on, they'd told him of their plans to visit Zurich and invited him along. At the time, Bucky had been torn. Travelling with company was risky, because people tended to ask questions, and there was always the risk of somebody seeing his cybernetic arm, or glimpsing his notebooks of memories. Those were questions he could not answer.

On the other hand, travelling with company would be safer; anybody looking for the Winter Soldier would not be looking for a group, they would be looking for one man alone. In a group, he had greater anonymity, could blend in with his surroundings more easily, and anybody who saw him would likely take him for one of the rowdy Australians and promptly forget about him. In the end, he'd accepted their offer. If things became too complicated, or if questions started being asked, he could always leave.

It didn't take long to reach the _Haus Konstruktiv_ , and as they arrived, Bucky took an immediate dislike to the museum. The building was a large, greyish-white concrete rectangle several storeys high, with small, regular rectangular windows that would not have looked out of place on a maximum security prison. An unpleasant feeling made his stomach churn, and his feet slowed of their own accord, causing Carrie to slow with him.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"No," he lied, steeling himself as he looked again at the building. "It just doesn't look much like a museum, from the outside." Why couldn't it be a fancy, overly ornate building with gaudy gold foil, sweeping balconies, and other embellishments that _didn_ _'t_ look like some dystopian nightmare?

"Kim says it used to be a power station." Carrie seemed to pick up on his reticence. "Y'know, if you wanna go somewhere else, I'm sure Kim won't mind. Once she starts looking at art, she'll barely even notice we're not with her anymore."

"No, it's fine," he said. Just a little anxiety. Maybe something left over from the Soldier… although he hadn't felt the Soldier stir since Geneva. Still, he could cope with one silly museum. He'd already done three or four. What was one more?

There was no queue outside the museum's front doors, and by the time they'd caught up with Kim, the young woman had already bought their entrance tickets and was bouncing on her heels, phone in hand, ready to start snapping.

"I think the best thing to do is start on the ground floor and work up," she said, pulling a glossy floor guide from her pocket. "Then on the way back down, we can take a second look at anything we think needs a bit longer."

Bucky didn't bother offering his opinion. Five minutes or five hours was all the same to him. The two women went on ahead and he followed them around the gallery, moving from installation to installation, passing through rooms decorated in colourful motifs, and rooms that contained seemingly randomly placed items which he didn't understand the point of even after he read the display notes. Some of it was okay to look at, but nothing made him feel anything as strongly as the outside of the building had done.

Then, he found himself in artistic hell.

On the third floor, he came to something that was a twisted jumble of steel and plastic, random shapes and structures incorporated into a grotesque sculpture covered in something white that was meant to mimic thick ice. The overall effect was a freezing, chaotic, industrial horror that twisted his gut and made something inside him scream at him to get away from the monstrosity.

 _Flash._

 _There wasn_ _'t a part of him that wasn't freezing, or burning, or aching. For hours at a time he shivered so violently that his muscles ached from constant activity, and just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, that he was going to die from the cold, the burning came, and his skin screamed in agony as lashes of fire skipped over it, searing him right down to the bone._

 _Flash._

 _Pain brought delirium, enhanced by the drip that fed something into his right arm. In the delirium, his mind floundered, struggling to stay afloat in a haze of agony and nausea. Every time he looked down, to where his left arm should have been, he saw nothing. His mind laughed hysterically, because it knew this couldn_ _'t be real, that his arm couldn't just be_ gone. _He could still feel it, and oh how it ached, burning even worse than his exhausted muscles._

 _Flash._

 _He lingered for an eternity in the hazy fog of agony, restrained in a cold, dark room. People came. They did things to him. He didn_ _'t know what they did, because he was too numb to feel anything but pain, his mind too delirious to understand anything that was happening. He tried talking to the people, telling them his name, who he was, but when they replied, it was in a language he didn't understand._

 _Flash._

 _The freezing and burning had ceased. His body had fought off the infection. Now, there was just the perpetual haze of whatever sedative was constantly in his system. Now, when he looked down, he knew his arm was gone. There was just a stump, roughly bandaged but no longer bleeding. His mind no longer laughed hysterically. Instead, it was numb. Reality had set in. He didn_ _'t know where he was, or what had happened to him, but this wasn't a nice place. There was more than one drip in him, now. Machines pumped things into his body and then took them away. Restraints around his arm, legs and neck held him immobile. The people who came either didn't listen to his requests for help, for mercy, or they didn't understand what he was saying. He didn't understand why they just wouldn't let him die._

 _Flash._

 _He was taken somewhere. There was light, terrible light that burnt his eyes after so long in the dark. Fresh air roused him, and he tried talking again, tried to ask where he was, who his captors were, what had happened to him_ _… but answers were not forthcoming. There was a truck, and his stretcher was taken into it, bringing a more comforting darkness, relief to his burning eyes. Rough voices shouted around him, still in a language he couldn't comprehend. He clung to one tiny hope; that maybe this was it. Maybe he was going home. Or maybe they would finally let him die._

 _Flash._

 _More darkness, even deeper than the darkness of his room. Above him were metal pipes, running along the ceiling, twisting here and there like the bones of a concrete monster. Again, he shivered, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold. He was inside the belly of a monster, and it was going to swallow him whole._

 _A voice. Familiar, somehow. It spoke to one of his captors._

" _How long ago did you find him?"_

" _Almost six months," his captor replied in English even more heavily accented than the voice._

" _Six months?! Why did you not send word sooner?"_

" _We had to purge all records of his existence. It is not easy to erase people the KGB are interested in. It took time."_

" _Well, let me take a look at him."_

 _The face appeared, small, bespectacled. It peered at him like a lepidopterist examining a particularly interesting specimen._ _"Hello, Sergeant Barnes," the face said. "Do you recognise me?"_

 _Bucky shook his head, the denial coming for his own sake, rather than the face_ _'s. He_ did _recognise the man. It was the doctor who had caused him so much pain in Austria_ _… pain that he had only just gotten over. Pain he thought he had finally left behind._

 _He tried to thrash, to free himself from his restraints, but he was too weak, and there was still something being fed into his arm by the drip, something which made his limbs feel heavy and his mind feel sluggish. He couldn_ _'t even open his mouth to scream._

" _It seems you_ do _recognise me,_ _" the ugly face smiled. "I'd thought you lost forever, Sergeant. We have much work to continue, you and I."_

 _No, no, no! he screamed inside his mind. But the face didn_ _'t hear him._ Couldn't _hear him._

" _First, there is the matter of payment," his captor said._

" _Yes, yes, I have your list," the doctor agreed. "In exchange for keeping the subject here, safe from the prying eyes of S.H.I.E.L.D., I will see to it that you receive the weapons and materials you have requested. I will send a couple of my colleagues to oversee the project, and I will come to check on the progress whenever I am able. It will be some time before S.H.I.E.L.D. believes me tamed; until then, I must cover my activities carefully."_

" _And the prisoner?"_

" _Like I said, my colleagues will handle him. Keep him as he is, whilst work begins on a suitable prosthesis. Tomorrow, I must return to Washington with my 'guard'. I will be back here in six months, to see what I can do about the subject's memory." The doctor rubbed his hands together, a gleeful grin on his pudgy face. "How wonderful, how fulfilling, to continue work on this important project!"_

 _Flash._

Bucky reached out his hand, clutching at a rail as the world heaved around him. His heart raced inside his chest, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat as a tidal wave of nausea rose up from his stomach and made him gag at the memory of the pain and delirium and the sight of a bloody, tattered stump where his arm should have been.

 _Oh god. The face_ _… Zola… he traded my life like it was nothing. He didn't care how much pain I was in, how much I suffered. He saw a broken thing and knew he could fix it. What did pain matter? That was the plan from the start… wipe my mind. Make me into a machine. The only thing he cared about was the success of the project. I was never more than a means to an end._

"Alex, are you okay?"

He opened his eyes. Carrie's concerned face swam in front of him… in front of the horrible construction that had triggered his memory. Swallowing bile, he nodded.

"Must've eaten something that disagrees with me. I need some fresh air. I'll catch up with you later."

He shrugged off her concern and her attempts to assist him, and made his way outside. There he took a seat on a bench and drank in the fresh air, letting it wash away the memory of the smell of disinfectant, of dampness, of sickness, of his own infected flesh. The Russians had got themselves a POW, and they hadn't expected him to survive. Left him to die from his injuries in some cold, dark cell even though the Soviets and the U.S. had technically been allies in the war. Who knew how long it had taken them to realise what they had? How long until they'd made the effort to save his life, only to sell it to Hydra in exchange for weapons? He'd been traded from owner to owner like a piece of merchandise, no care or thought given to the person he was. All they saw was opportunity. A means to further their own goals.

When he heard a squeal of metal, he looked down and saw his left hand clenched into a tight first, his glove-covered fingers straining with the pressure. It took a moment for him to relax enough to release his grip, and as he watched his hand, he felt a conflicted measure of hatred and gratitude. Hatred over what Hydra had done to him, turned him into… and gratitude that they'd at least given him an arm to replace the one he lost, even if it was simply so he could be a more effective weapon for them, even if he didn't feel like he was always fully in control of it. At least he _looked_ like a whole person on the outside, no matter how broken he felt within.

o - o - o - o - o

 _Day 78. Today I saw snow for the first time in seventy years. And yet, I remember one winter in Siberia in which the snow came so deep that it was days before a plane could make it through the storm. I don_ _'t remember what mission it had come to take me to, just that my handlers at the time did not like the delay. When I woke up this morning, the city was transformed. It was like something out of a fairytale. Children were playing in the street outside the cheap hotel where I have my own room for once. Their laughter brought back… not memories, exactly, but echoes. A sense of familiarity without the jarring visuals. Kinda like the echoes I got in New York, of how I thought the street had looked when I was young. I think as a child, I must have enjoyed the snow._

 _It_ _'s been a long time since I properly spoke to anyone. I don't understand the language here, but I get by. Some of the shopkeepers understand enough English, and from time to time I come across groups of tourists. It's nice to just sit and listen to them. They don't know me, they don't know that I understand what they say, but it's nice to hear familiar words. To hear them talk about their impressions of the city, where they want to eat dinner, what they want to do tomorrow, generic, unimportant stuff like that… I guess it's easy, being a tourist. You go somewhere with a set amount of money and time, and cram as much into it as you possibly can. I wish I was a tourist. I wish I had a set amount of money and time, instead of having to infrequently break into ATM machines, instead of having so much time that it seems almost a burden. At least I'm getting a lot of research done. The books in the libraries here don't really help me, but thank God for the internet._

Bucky stopped writing when a member of the bar staff brought over a dish of broth and a bread roll.

"Enjoy," the man said, his English marred by a strong Hungarian accent.

"Thank you."

As he tucked into his early dinner, he turned to the back of his _Me_ notebook and reviewed his progress on the map he'd folded there. A series of small crosses marked his journey so far, starting in Calais and travelling down just beyond Lyon, where he'd done a couple of weeks' worth of grape picking. Geneva was the next cross, followed by Zurich. After leaving the Australians—they'd opted to go up to Germany for Oktoberfest, and he gave them the excuse that he'd already been to Germany before now, which was technically true—he'd travelled the length of Austria, stopping in various small towns along the way, trying to find somewhere he felt comfortable enough to stay for more than a few days.

Austria seemed a nice country, full of beautiful landscapes, breathtaking views, and some very attractive inhabitants, but he still didn't feel comfortable enough to settle down there. As well, the towns that he stopped in were all rather insular; polite enough to visitors, though somewhat mistrustful of outsiders. Finding work would have been difficult, if not impossible, and he needed to work so that he could give up on petty crime. Austria was the country he most regretted leaving behind, but when he'd finally made the decision to move on into Hungary, he hadn't looked back.

When he finished his broth, he ordered another beer and turned back to the front of his book. The beer didn't affect him, but he liked the taste, and like the snow it evoked echoes of past times. Perhaps, one day, those echoes would manifest as fully-fledged memories. For now, it was a good excuse to stay a little longer in Café Gerbeaud.

 _I feel like I_ _'ve been travelling forever,_ he resumed. _The fear of being recognised is pretty much gone. Out here, America_ _'s so far away that it only gets an infrequent mention on the TV. But now, I have another problem to think about. Eventually, I'm gonna run out of Europe. If I keep going east, I'll eventually hit Russia, and I don't think it's a good idea for me to go there. The Soviet Union may have fallen, but I still have a red star on my arm that no amount of scrubbing will get off. What does that leave? Go south? To what? Africa? Heat? Lions? A huge dessert? Even if I got down to Jo-berg, that place is a dump._

 _Maybe I shouldn_ _'t have left America. Maybe I should have gone down through Mexico, lost myself in some South American rainforest. But… no libraries, in a rainforest. No supermarkets, no computers, no pens. Besides, that sounds kinda like hell, too. I've gotta figure out where I belong in the world, not run away from it entirely._

 _Budapest is nice. Maybe I_ _'ll stay here a while. The city just goes on forever, and there's so much to see, even if I don't understand half of what I hear. There are worse places to get lost in. Soon, the hotel manager tells me, the Christmas markets will start. Something worth seeing, apparently. Do I look like the kinda guy who'd be interested in Christmas markets? Then again, do I look like the kinda guy who'd be interested in marching in a gay pride parade? Maybe people see a different me to the me I see from inside myself. I remember New York during the Depression, I remember Europe when it was war-torn and broken, I remember two dozen winters whenever they woke me from cryo… did I leave me behind? Did I leave me in New York? Did I leave me at Azzano? Did I leave me in cryo one time, and not even realise it?_

 _I have these memories, but I dunno_ _… I don't feel like I have enough to put the whole picture together yet. I want to be the me I was, but what if I can't go back that far? What if I really did leave a part of me in New York? What if a part of me died at Azzano, with those who weren't captured? What if there's a part of me still in some Soviet cryo chamber? What if I can't get all those parts of me back? What if they're lost forever?_

 _I wish I had someone to talk to. I don_ _'t think I had that much, in the past. I don't think I could have talked to my dad like this. Maybe to Mary-Ann. Maybe to Steve. I guess that's why I brought Bingo back. Thoughts tumbling in, programming tumbling out, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, why I'd been left alone, where my handlers were… guess my mind just needed something, anything, to ramble these things at. Something to make me feel a little less alone._

 _Jeez, listen to me. I sound like I should be setting up a fake account and logging onto therapists anonymous dot com. I wonder if that_ _'s actually a thing. Would rambling these things at a faceless entity be any more productive than rambling them at an imaginary dog, or into a notebook? Doubtful. Besides, at least these books serve a purpose. If Hydra ever get their hands on me, they'll try to turn me back into the Winter Soldier. If they do that, I'll be gone again. At least with these books, something is left behind. At least there's a chance that they'll fall into the right hands. The hands of someone who will read this and know what I was going through, and understand that I was trying to change. To redeem myself for what they made me do. To be a better person. To be any sort of person at all._

His scribblings raised a valid point. These books were his memories. The total sum of who he was so far. He had to make sure the hands they fell into were the _right_ hands. If the wrong hands got hold of them, there was no telling what they would do to them. The thought of someone like Zola, or Pierce, with their hands on these memories… no, it wouldn't do at all. So, he pulled out all of his notebooks, and on the inside cover of every single book, he wrote:

 _Memories of J. B. Barnes. If found, please return to: Steve Rogers, Captain America, USA._

To be doubly certain his memories would get safely back to Steve if he ever lost them, he slipped a 5-Euro note, currency left over from Austria that he hadn't been bothered to change into Hungarian forints, between the middle pages of each book, to help cover the cost of postage.

After giving himself a mental pat on the back, he downed the last of his beer, packed up his notebooks and left the café, stepping out into a Budapest that had gladly welcomed an icing-sugar coating of fresh snow. It was amazing the impact snow could have on a population. In Siberia, snow had been an annoying but unavoidable part of life. Here in Budapest, like back in New York, the first snow of winter made everybody a kid again, at least for a couple of hours before traffic chaos set in.

He walked aimlessly for a while, letting the sights and the sounds of the city wash over him, looking without really paying attention. People no longer bothered him. Only a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, at most, had ever seen him, and even within Hydra his existence was a closely guarded secret. His handlers in America had died in the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. along with Pierce, which meant that in the whole of the world, there couldn't be more than dozen or so people left who knew what he looked like, even if the name 'Winter Soldier' meant anything to them.

Security cameras, on the other hand… they paid closer attention than people, and they didn't forget what they saw. He made sure that whenever he passed by a security camera, his stolen baseball cap was firmly down and obscuring his face. Caution cost him nothing, and might one day save his life.

Halfway across the Chain Bridge, which linked the _Buda_ and _Pest_ halves of the city, he stopped and turned to lean over the side of the bridge, looking down into the water below. The Danube was more like a lake than a river at this point, so wide that it dwarfed the Hudson, its waters so deep and fast that the late-autumn frost had made no impact on its shallowest edges.

Watching the water from above brought him a sense of uneasiness not unlike the museum in Zurich, so he made it a daily ritual. Forced himself to endure it after dinner each evening. Forced himself to stand still and listen to his own cry as he fell from a great height, forced himself to endure his heart racing and his skin prickling with sweat at the thought of anticipated agony. Made himself watch the swirling currents as the Soldier stirred momentarily before settling back down, each day a test of his own resolve, each day pushing each minute a little longer, until he could stand there for two, for three, for ten…

 _Flash_.

 _His breath came slowly, loud to his ears, echoing inside the mask fastened across the lower half of his face. His eyes, covered by lenses to dull harsh streetlight and preserve his night-vision, tracked his quarry without blinking. Silently, he ghosted across the rooftops, taking advantage of the ornate architecture, using crenellations as hand-holds, gargoyles as jumping points, moving with such ease, such stealth, that by the time the pigeons roosting around chimneys were frightened and took to the wing, he was already gone._

 _As he followed his target, he heard his handler_ _'s words repeated in his mind._

" _This is your mission." A photograph had been held up. He studied it closely. A man wearing a black hat, a monocle covering his left eye, a thin black moustache curling down over his top lip. "This is the weapon you will use. There are to be no witnesses."_

 _He_ _'d been handed a weapon and had recognised it immediately. M1C Garand, U.S. design. Telescopic sight for aiming, flash suppressor for secrecy. He'd been given training on it. Was proficient enough to hit a running target. By all accounts, his target would not be running._

 _His Mission was a creature of habit. Keen eyes had watched him travel to and from work at the Kremlin every day for two weeks. The Soldier himself had been to scout out the area, and chosen an isolated place to carry out his task. As his target took his usual shortcut through Red Square, the Soldier went on ahead, racing ahead of the man now that he was sure the routine would be adhered to._

 _The night was dark, but the Soldier_ _'s eyes made use of every scrap of light. The goggles covering his eyes helped to disperse the streetlight, creating a soft glow to allow him to better see movement. At the place he'd already selected, he picked up the gun he'd previously stored there, and settled down between the roofs of two neighbouring buildings. He resumed his previous breathing pattern. Slowly in, slowly out. There was no concern about being seen; the street was empty. No worry about missing his shot; he had trained extensively for this. No guilt over a life snuffed out; he served a greater purpose._

 _His target stepped into the street, taking his usual route along the Moskva river. The Soldier lifted his rifle, took aim, followed his target down his sight, and fired just ahead of him, aiming for the empty space into which his Mission stepped._

 _A loud_ _ **crack**_ _echoed down the street. Several geese resting on the river took to the air, honking in fright. The Soldier waited only long enough to see a spray of red erupt cleanly from the man_ _'s head, which split like a melon. Was already turning as he heard the body drop into the river, where the water slowly claimed it._

 _Perhaps the body would be fished from the river. Perhaps not. But if it was ever found, and the bullet recovered from the skull, at least they would know where to place the blame._

 _Back at the building which served as a temporary base in Moscow, the Soldier gave a report._ _"Mission successful."_

" _Very good," his handler said, and the Soldier felt himself relax when no further commands were forthcoming. His handler turned to one of the doctors. "Prepare a report for Doctor Zola. Tell him that the Winter Soldier's programming held up under the stress of a mission, and that the mission was completed without incident and without witness. He has spent so long working on this project, he is certain to be pleased to see it finally coming to fruition."_

 _Flash._

Bucky kept his eyes closed as the memory faded, kept his mind focused on the moment, on the sound of traffic and the river below. He managed to keep the world from spinning this time, managed to keep himself from feeling nauseous at the memory. _I_ _'ll find you next,_ he thought silently to the memory of the man he had killed. _Maybe I should have tried to find you before now, but_ _… you were the first. I guess I've been afraid that if I found you, it'd open a floodgate. That all the others would just come rushing in. I'm sorry. I promise, I'll find out who you were._

Finally, he opened his eyes, letting reality return. As far as he could tell, no time had passed. The boat he had been watching crawl up the Danube was almost no further away than it had been before the vision.

There were times when he wished the Winter Soldier were an actual person, another voice inside his head that he could talk to… another soul to take on some of the burden of guilt and shame. But the Soldier was nothing except a desire to obey and fight. An entity inside his head that lacked a soul, that had no voice of its own, no ability to feel sadness or regret… couldn't even feel elation at his own past successes, and had no pride in his work because pride required ego, and the Soldier hadn't even been allowed to have that.

The Soldier had taken countless lives, and left Bucky to clean up his mess. "Thanks for that," he grumbled quietly under his breath. "First they make me their weapon, now they make me their weapon's janitor. Those Hydra scientists must be laughing their asses off right now."

 _I wish I_ _'d been stronger._

The thought came unbidden, making his breath catch in his throat. Immediately, he recognised the inherent _rightness_ of it. If he had been stronger, this would never have happened. If he'd fought harder, Hydra wouldn't have been able to erase his memories. He'd been too weak to resist, and not strong enough to take back control once the Soldier was handed the reins, and because of his weakness, people had died.

He _deserved_ every bit of punishment the dead could throw at him. But for his weakness, they would have lived. Or, at least been murdered by somebody else. Somebody not him. Somebody who could have handled it all better. Somebody who didn't almost kill his best friend for trying to reach out to him.

With the thought weighing on his mind, he left the bridge and made his way back towards the hotel. He had homework to do, and it was time to put Budapest behind him.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: If you want to see the sculpture which triggered Bucky's nightmare of being in Siberia, just do a Google image search for "_ Haus Konstruktiv Esposizion _" — it should come up as one of the first pictures. Personally, I think it's interesting, but from a tortured Winter Soldier POV, it's pretty gruesome._

 _Thanks once again to everyone who_ _'s given feedback on the last chapter, and to guest 'Barton' reviewer for your comment on the supporting characters. One of my favourite parts of writing is creating/discovering empathetic OCs and fleshing out minor characters to give them a greater role to play in the immersion of the setting. Thank you very much for enjoying something that many fanfic readers (and writers) do not seem to like to invest time in._


	12. Christmas

Running To You

 _12\. Christmas_

 _Day 98. Today is Christmas Eve, and I am alone. The hostel I_ _'ve found is supposed to house eight to ten people, but it turns out Bucharest isn't a particularly popular Christmas destination for tourists. Probably should've gone to Prague._

 _It_ _'s not all bad. I have the place to myself. It's warm, comfortable, and I don't have to think up lies. Nobody should have to spend Christmas thinking up lies._

 _It_ _'s been almost six months since Washington. Where the hell did time go? Six months ago I started to wake up from a long sleep, and looking back at that time, I barely even recognise myself. Everything seemed strange. New. Like I was seeing things for the first time. Understanding concepts that were familiar, yet unexperienced. Guess that's what happens when you get your memories erased, when you get brainwashed into being somebody else's weapon._

 _Now I gotta figure out where to go next. I finally ran out of east, so that leaves me south, to Bulgaria, or back the way I came. Not sure which would be best. At the very least, I_ _'ll stay here until after the New Year, make the most of the peace and quiet._

 _I wonder_ _… when was my last real Christmas? What was I doing? Where did I spend it? Front lines, probably, fighting Nazis. War doesn't stop for a holiday. At least I spent it with friends. Probably. Did they have Christmas on the base in Siberia? Did they bring out little party hats while I was in cryo? What about the other Winter Soldiers that imaginary-Zola spoke of? Were they ever real? Or was my broken mind so desperate for a family, so desperate to not be alone, that it just imagined up more people like me?_

The cheery _ding_ of the microwave pulled Bucky's thoughts away from the dark pit of loneliness which too often these days tried to open up beneath his feet. The smell of food made his stomach growl in anticipation. How long had it been since his last meal? Two days? Three?

He closed his notebook and retrieved his dinner from the microwave. Cabbage rolls and sausages in some sort of onion-heavy gravy would not have been his first choice of Christmas Eve meal, but it was better than nothing. Almost anything could taste good on an empty stomach, and he ate down to the last scrap of gravy.

Hunger finally sated, he took his notebook to the spacious couch and stretched out on it, reviewing some of his last entries. Writing every single day wasn't always possible—and there had been days when not enough happened, or he had no thoughts worth recording—but he'd tried to get into the habit of keeping a regular account of his travels. Although the other notebooks were relatively sparse, he'd soon he'd need a new notebook for _Me_.

The journey from Hungary to Romania had been the most boring and arduous part of his travels so far. The further he got from western Europe, the fewer fellow travellers he met, and the quieter and smaller the towns and cities became. In a way, the quietness was good; it gave him time to think. But on the other hand… it gave him time to think.

In mid-December, just after crossing from Hungary into Romania, the sky had dumped a bucket-load of snow on the Carpathian Mountains and their surrounding area. Heavy snow would have made for awkward travelling for anybody except the man who had once been the Winter Soldier. When roads and rails slowed to a crawl, waiting to be cleared, Bucky walked. When the trains ran late or he couldn't hitchhike, he walked. Sometimes he walked simply to give himself something to do.

He stuck mostly to the roads, but many of the small villages he passed through weren't like the villages and towns of western Europe. Here, farming didn't have the same high-tech flair. People eked out meagre existences living in subsistence-level poverty. Roads went unpaved. Brown bears had a nasty habit of appearing from the edges of the forests. Wolves could be heard howling at night. The temperature didn't stay low long enough to keep the snow frozen at lower elevations; it melted into a grey slush which turned the ground to quagmire. All in all, it was very depressing, which suited his mood just fine.

Finally, the need to change direction before hitting the Black Sea had brought him south, to Bucharest, where he'd landed just in time to find a place to stay right before the holiday period. As fortune would have it, Hydra had, at some stage, put Romanian in his head. That was pretty weird, because he would have thought Italian or Spanish to be more important and relevant languages. But that was Hydra for you; half of what they did didn't make sense, and the other half he preferred not to think about.

He put his _Me_ notebook to one side and lay his head down on his arms, shifting his body so that his metal arm was beneath the flesh one, giving himself a more comfortable pillow. A meal of hot food and the warmth of the hostel's central heating double-teamed him, and before he knew it, his eyelids were closing. Tiredness clawed at his mind, and a few minutes later he was asleep so deeply that he didn't even hear the church bells ring midnight.

o - o - o - o - o

" _Bucky, Bucky, wake up, it's Chris-mus!"_

 _Bucky groaned as the world_ _'s most energetic three-year-old jumped up and down on his bed and, by extension, on Bucky himself._

" _Wake up wake up wake up!" Charlie demanded._

" _I'm awake!" he replied, turning over in bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Daylight filtered in through curtains already pulled open by Charlie, and by the brightness outside, Bucky could tell that it had snowed a whole lot more overnight. "What time is it?" he grumbled._

" _Chris-mus o'clock!"_

" _That's not a time, pipsqueak." He raised his voice and shouted, "What time is it?" to anyone close enough to hear._

" _Eight," his dad called back from the master bedroom next door. "Almost."_

 _Stifling a yawn, Bucky sat up and pushed Charlie off his bed. Sharing a room with a three year old was tiring even when he wasn_ _'t sleepy from late night Mass, but at least the worst would soon be over. Eventually Charlie would grow up enough to find something more constructive to do with his excess energy. When Janet was old enough to sleep in a bed, Mary-Ann would have to share a room with her, and live with all the joys of a hyperactive toddler. Hopefully Janet would be less excitable than Charlie._

 _As Bucky dragged himself out of bed and dressed in his second-best shirt and pants, Charlie ran downstairs in his nightclothes. His cries of excitement over presents discovered beneath the Christmas tree reached Bucky_ _'s ears and drew a smile across his face. When he stepped out of his room, Mary-Ann pipped him to the top of the staircase; she looked as tired as he felt, but there was an excitement in her eyes that even tiredness couldn't hide. She skipped down the steps, her fingers deftly tying the string of her pinafore at the small of her back._

 _Halfway down the stairs, the smell of Mom_ _'s cooking hit Bucky like a delicious punch to the gut. Oatmeal sweetened with syrup, fried bacon, sizzling tomatoes… how'd she manage to get fresh tomatoes in the middle of winter? He shook his head. Wasn't important. The only thing that mattered was how great it would all taste._

 _In the living room, the Christmas tree was alive with small candles burning merrily on the ends of the strongest branches, and a large pile of neatly wrapped presents had been stacked around the trunk. Atop the tree, a homemade angel presided over the entire room, her wings made of soft white feathers and her halo sparkly as diamonds._

 _"Bucky, Mary-Ann, please keep your brother from tearing apart all those gifts," his mother called from the kitchen._

 _"_ _I want presents from Santa," Charlie sulked, his bottom lip coming out._

 _"_ _Well, you'll just have to wait, won't you?" Mary-Ann countered. Charlie, being three, ignored her more grown-up logic and made a grab for the pile of gifts, so Bucky picked him up and carried him to the couch, where he couldn't do as much damage. "Mom, can I give Janet her bottle?" Mary-Ann asked._

 _"_ _I fed her already this morning, but you can hold her 'til I'm done with breakfast," Mom called back._

 _Bucky watched his sister head over to the crib, where Janet was quietly sucking away on her pacifier. Mary-Ann was obsessed with the baby, always wanting to pick her up, sing to her, feed her_ _… Bucky thought his youngest sister was rather boring. All she did was sleep, and drink milk, and cry, and sick up. At least Charlie had got past vomiting all the time and could now do fun things, like nearly catch a ball, and one time he'd accidentally slid into home base by tripping over his own feet._

 _"_ _Merry Christmas, kids," said Dad, descending the stairs as he clipped his tie to his shirt. He looked smart in his steam-pressed suit, but then again, he always looked smart. There were some things in life a man couldn't control, he'd told Bucky, but his appearance wasn't one of them._

 _"_ _Merry Christmas, Dad," Bucky and Mary-Ann chorused._

 _"_ _Merry Chris-mus Dada" Charlie cooed, before attempting to squirm out of his brother's arms to reach the presents._

 _When Dad disappeared into the kitchen, Mary-Ann gave Bucky a conspiratorial grin and nodded to the pile of presents._ _"Bet that one's mine," she said, indicating the largest._

 _"_ _Bet that's Charlie's," he countered. "Bet that's yours, the one with the pink ribbon."_

 _"_ _Naw, I bet that's Mom's present from Dad."_

 _"_ _They're all my presents," said Charlie. "From Santa." The toddler hadn't really grasped the concept of sharing, yet, and he was going to be in for a surprise when he learnt the presents weren't all really for him._

 _"_ _Breakfast's ready!" Mom called from the kitchen, and not a moment too soon. Bucky's stomach was growling so loud that Mr Peterson could probably hear it from next door._

 _Mary-Ann returned Janet to her crib, and Bucky wrestled Charlie into the kitchen. Dad had already loaded his plate with toast and bacon and fried tomatoes so juicy that their skins were falling off them. Mom took command of Charlie, throwing aside her grease-spattered apron._

 _"_ _But I want presents!" Charlie moaned, when he was given a plate of food._

 _"_ _Eat your breakfast first," said Dad. "Then you can have presents."_

 _Charlie looked like he was about to argue, but a stern glance from Dad closed his mouth swiftly enough. Bucky helped himself to oatmeal and toast, his mouth practically watering at the smell of the bacon. Mom always said_ _'manners maketh man', so he forced himself to eat slowly, to appear calm and grown up, even when Mary-Ann's gaze challenged him to the last fried tomato up for grabs in the dish. At the last minute, Dad swooped in to spear the tomato with his fork, leaving Bucky and his sister pretending they hadn't just been racing their breakfast to grab the last morsel._

 _"_ _We'll be going to the Carol Service at midday," Dad said as he sipped his coffee and glanced over yesterday's newspaper._

 _Bucky waited patiently, fingers interlocked in front of him on the table so he couldn_ _'t tap, or fidget, or toy with his spoon while he waited for his father to finish the morning pleasantries. Dad had no patience for impatience._

 _"_ _I spoke with Mrs Rogers yesterday," Mom said. "She and Steve are going to meet us at the corner of their block."_

 _Dad nodded, and Bucky grinned as his sister blushed. Mary-Ann had the world_ _'s biggest crush on Steve, and poor Steve was completely oblivious. Bucky was just waiting for the right moment to drop the revelation on his best friend… so he could tease both of them about it for the rest of their lives._

 _"_ _Momma, I'm not hungry anymore," Charlie said, pushing his plate of half-eaten toast away. "Can I have presents from Santa now?"_

 _Mom looked to Dad, who gave the tiniest of nods. Bucky_ _'s heart nearly leapt right out of his chest, and Bucky himself from his chair. Mary-Ann was quicker; she was in the living room while Bucky was still affecting an air of grown-up nonchalance._

 _The most exciting part of Christmas wasn_ _'t getting presents, having new things to play with and wear—although those ranked a close second and third, in Bucky's mind. The most exciting part of Christmas was that moment when he held a present in his hands, the moment before pulling off the ribbon and the paper, that moment of_ possibility _, when the present could have been anything. There was nothing he liked more than that moment of excitement and anticipation, and where Mary-Ann preferred to tear through her gifts in one frenzy of unwrapping, Bucky took his time with his, drawing out the unwrapping of each present to make the excitement last as long as possible, savouring each moment._

 _Mary-Ann was waiting cross-legged beside the Christmas tree, an expression of unrestrained impatience etched across her face._

 _"_ _I was right," she grinned, as Bucky joined her, and Mom and Dad brought Charlie from the kitchen. She held up the large box, showing him the name-tag which had 'To Mary-Ann, Love From Mom & Dad' written on it. "Mom, can I open this first?"_

 _"_ _Sure Annie, just give your brothers a chance to keep up with you."_

 _His sister didn_ _'t listen. She'd gone through the large present (a new dress folded in a box — "It's amazing, I love it!") and two smaller gifts (a doll — "So adorable!" and a tin of soft candied fruits — "My favourite!") whilst Charlie had just opened his first (a new pair of shoes — "I 'ate shoes!") and Bucky was waiting for the suspense of his first present to build. It turned out to be a new winter hat, thick woollen gloves and a matching scarf. The tiny slip of paper attached to the hat said 'made in Santa's workshop' but the knitting looked suspiciously like the woollen jumpers his mother insisted on making every year._

 _"_ _Oh, I hope I get a new hat and gloves, too!" said Mary-Ann, looking wistfully at his first gift whilst clutching a new hardback copy of 'The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle'._

 _"_ _I 'ate hats," said Charlie._

 _"_ _Hurry up Bucky, we only have two hours until Carol Service!" Mary-Ann wheedled._

 _"_ _You don't have to wait for me to open mine, you know," he told her. "You still have three or four you haven't demolished yet."_

 _"_ _But I want to see what you get!"_

 _"_ _Ooh look what I got!" Charlie cooed happily. He pulled a stuffed bear from its wrapping paper and hugged it to his chest. "Santa brought me a teddy bear."_

 _"_ _Santa brought me a teddy bear when I was three as well," Bucky told his brother. "I still have him, too. What are you gonna call your bear?"_

 _"_ _Benny!"_

 _"Y_ _ou can't call him Benny. Mine's called Benny."_

 _"_ _Buddy!"_

 _"_ _I like Buddy," Mary-Ann nodded. "Buddy can be invited to Miss Milly's tea party." She held up her new doll, and Bucky grinned. She was all teddies-and-tea-parties now, but but as soon as Steve came over, she'd pretend like the dolls weren't even hers._

 _As the unopened pile of colourfully wrapped presents dwindled, the pile of open gifts grew. Both Mary-Ann and Charlie got new hats, scarves and gloves to match Bucky_ _'s, but where his were dark blue, his sister's were white, and Charlie's dark green. Charlie got several books of nursery rhymes, another new pair of shoes, a pull-along wagon, several small toy cars and a wooden cavalry set. A colourful flower-patterned coin bank joined Mary-Ann's pile, whilst Bucky got a bag of shiny new marbles, a new baseball bat and a Rawlings pitcher's glove, a tin of boiled sweets, a gyroscope and a tinker construction kit._

 _"_ _Last presents left!" Mary-Ann said, reaching for the last three under the tree. One present apiece, the same shape and size, differing only in their paper and name tags. "C'mon Charlie, stop playing with Buddy, we should open our last presents together."_

 _Charlie clutched his new bear to his chest and accepted the present from Mary-Ann. Despite her_ _'togetherness' sentiment, she was first to tear off her paper, revealing a bag of nuts and a wooden nutcracker in the form of a soldier with a red jacket._

 _"_ _What is it?" Charlie asked, when he'd pulled out his own green-coated wooden soldier._

 _"_ _A nutcracker," Bucky told his brother. He held up his own, which was like the others, only with a blue coat. "Here, you do this." He put a nut in the nutcracker's mouth and pushed down the lever on the wooden back. The hazelnut shell split neatly open, and the nut fell out._

 _Charlie gave it a try, but his chubby little hands couldn_ _'t generate enough force to crack the nut. His bottom lip came out again, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears. "Mine's broken!"_

 _"_ _Here, let me do it for you," Bucky said, cracking the nut so Charlie could see his toy really did work. "It's just that your fingers are too little to work it properly. Don't worry, I'll help you 'til you're bigger."_

 _His little brother nodded solemnly, then pointed to the new baseball mitt._ _"Can I try your glove on?"_

 _"S_ _ure you can. You wear it like this." He put the glove on his brother's left hand and fastened it as tightly as the glove would go. It was comically large at the end of Charlie's arm. Mary-Ann grinned, and even Dad chuckled at the sight._

 _"_ _It'll be a couple of years yet before we get you in the outfield, son."_

 _"_ _I wanna be a pitcher, like Bucky," Charlie complained._

 _"_ _I'll teach you how to pitch when you're older, squirt," Bucky told his brother._

 _"_ _How old."_

 _"_ _I dunno… five?" Five seemed a good age to learn how to properly throw a ball._

 _"_ _When can I be five?"_

 _"_ _In another two Christmases."_

 _"_ _But first," Dad said, "we've got Carol Service. Take some of these toys up to your room before they get stood on and broken."_

 _"_ _Bucky, will you help carry my toys to my room?" Charlie asked, clutching his new Buddy-Bear to his chest._

 _Bucky smiled at his little brother._ _"Of course I will."_

o - o - o - o - o

Bucky's eyes crept open and daylight filtered in from outside. He held his breath, listening to the silence, straining for the sound of his brother's laughter, for his sister's feet drumming on the stairs, for his parents talking in the kitchen as his mom prepared breakfast… but there was nothing except an emptiness that would never be filled. Inside his chest, he felt something stretch, and stretch, and then finally snap, bringing back the gaping maw of darkness that opened up beneath him.

There would be no more Christmas with the family. No more Mary-Ann tearing excitedly into her presents. No more Charlie sulking over getting shoes, being more interested in playing with his brother and sister's gifts than his own. No more sitting with a present in his hands, trying to guess at its content, letting the suspense build. No more breakfasts with tomatoes fried the way only Mom knew how, and Dad making small-talk like it wasn't the most exciting day in the world. No more midday Carol Service, no Christmas Dinner with turkey and stuffing and Mom's lumpy mashed potatoes.

The one memory he had hoped for, hunted for, wished for more than anything, now did nothing more than serve to remind him of what he had lost. What had been stolen from him. The world had moved on, and Bucky hadn't been able to move with it. Everyone he had ever known, and loved, was gone. Even Steve, who was still alive, had been taken from him, because Hydra had tried to make their Winter Soldier kill the man who had been his best friend, and how could he possibly stand in front of Captain America and pretend that, after everything he had done, they could ever be equals? That they could ever be friends again?

All desire to get out of the hostel and walk around the city fled. What was the point? It was just a city. He'd seen dozens like it. Some seventy Christmases had passed without him, and this one would pass too. Tomorrow it wouldn't be Christmas anymore. Tomorrow it would be the day after Christmas, and he'd have another 364 days of not-Christmas to get through before he'd have to deal with this again.

For the next twelve hours he lay there, unmoving, and let his mind wander.

 _Why did I even want that memory? I should have known that it wouldn_ _'t make me happy. I'm not allowed to be happy, I've caused too much suffering for that. I wish I could go back to being like when I first got to New York, when I was more like the Winter Soldier. It didn't matter if I had friends, or family, or a pretty girl smiling at me. I was perfectly fine being alone, with just my imaginary dead dog for company._

 _I_ _'m just going to lie here until it's not Christmas anymore. For one day, I can just pretend I don't exist. It's not like I really exist anyway. I died when Hydra turned me into their weapon. Now all I am is a collection of memories. I am a walking museum. That's all I am. I'm like that horrible building back in… where was it, anyway? Zurich? I'm a concrete bunker of good memories and bad memories, all dark and out of focus and covered with blood. I don't deserve Christmas. Not even a miserable Christmas. I'm not moving even an inch until tomorrow._

 _...dammit, now I gotta pee._

One short bathroom break later he was walking around the living room, stretching cold muscles, trying to work a little life back into his limbs. So his stupid body had made him move from the sofa. That was fine. He still didn't have to leave the hostel. He could still be an ugly, soulless museum of memories if he was walking around, stretching his legs.

He stopped his pacing when he realised he was being watched. A pair of bright blue eyes observed him silently from the mantlepiece, a splash of colour pulling his thoughts away from black and white and red. _My Christmas present. I completely forgot._

He'd bought her whilst hiking through Transylvania, from a wizened, white-haired woman who was selling the things from a box in some town he couldn't even remember the name of. Ordinarily he would have passed by without another thought, but one of the brightly coloured Matryoshka dolls had caught his eye. Her outermost self was painted with a pale face, rosy-pink cheeks and a swirl of brown hair beneath a red and blue bonnet. Her dress was a garish contrast of red, blue and green, tamed by a white apron which so perfectly hid the seam separating the two halves that even to his keen eye she appeared whole. At the time, he'd told himself he'd bought it because he felt sorry for the peasant woman selling them; the season had been marching swiftly towards mid-winter, and he guessed he ought to buy himself _something_ for Christmas, since there was nobody left to do it for him. Now, though…

"You remind me of the nutcrackers," he said, squatting down to mantle-height to study her. With her dark hair and colourful attire, she put him in mind of a pretty Roma woman in traditional dress. "I guess, like me, like the nutcracker, you're from a simpler time, too. Remember when kids used to be happy to get a bag of marbles for Christmas, or a new hat and gloves?" She watched him silently. "No? Well, I do."

He picked up the doll and carried it back to the couch, cradling the wooden nest in his hands as he sank onto the comfortable cushion.

"Tell you what, why don't we do this together? When I get to the centre of you… well, that'll be the centre of me. We can do one layer at a time, one each year. However many Christmases it takes us to get through all the layers, right down to what's in the centre of you, and me… I guess then, we'll both be finished. Then we can make a decision. When we've found the centre of ourselves, we can let go of the past and look ahead to the future. Right?"

He took her silence as assent. With both hands around the centre of the doll, he grasped and twisted, separating the two halves. Inside was a smaller doll, this one blonde-haired and brown-eyed. Her bonnet was white, her dress cornflower blue; she could be a farmer's daughter, he thought.

For a moment he sat with the two dolls in his hands, the colourful, hollow one in his left, the plainer, full one in his right. It seemed a shame, to throw away something so pretty… but perhaps that was the trap he had to avoid. If he was going to be peeling away layers, he couldn't go putting them back on just because the last layer was brighter, more cheerful. No matter how plain, or dark, or ugly things got, he had to move forward.

"No looking back." He gently applied pressure with his left hand, and the hollow shell splintered and cracked. He put it aside, then set the blonde-haired girl balancing atop his knee. "So. You're new here, huh? Guess we have a year together. Better make the most of it, because next Christmas, I'm unwrapping you."

A rapid knock on the front door made him jump in fright, heart pounding in his chest. The dislodged doll fell, but his fast reflexes saved her before she hit the floor and spilled all her layers everywhere. With a deep, calming breath, he asked, "I'm not expecting anyone tonight. Are you?"

She didn't respond—which he was glad for, because he was already crazy enough without dolls talking to him—so he set her onto the kitchen counter and went to the hostel door. It was chained to keep out visitors who weren't super-soldierly strong, and when Bucky peered around it, he found himself looking into a pair of warm green eyes framed by long blonde hair.

"Merry Christmas," the young woman smiled, and Bucky quickly put an identity to the face. She was the hostel owner's step-daughter, responsible for cleaning up the place between guests. She'd shown him where the bed-linens were kept, when he arrived yesterday.

"And Merry Christmas to you," he replied, slipping easily into Romanian.

"I brought this for you." She indicated a heavy pot carried in her arms. ""We had so much left over from dinner, and I thought it would be better than those microwave meals you unpacked."

"Oh." He hadn't even considered eating. It would be another day or two before his body insisted on being refuelled. Sometimes, when travelling, he was so deep in thought and memory that he forgot to eat, until his stomach reminded him days had passed since his last meal. "Thank you, that's very kind of you."

He slid the chain from the door and opened it to let her inside. She offered him another smile as she took the pot into the kitchen and deposited it on the cooker, and he used the moment to quickly slip his nearby gloves over his hands. When the young woman lifted the lid on the pot, delicious meaty smells poured out, saturating the air. He hadn't planned on eating, but it would be a shame to see the food go to waste.

"My name's Camelia, by the way," she said. "I didn't get chance to introduce myself properly yesterday." Her step-father had hovered behind her, scowling the entire time. It was as if he didn't _want_ someone paying him to stay in an empty hostel.

In his head, Bucky flipped a coin. Be American today, or be Russian? It landed Russian. "Sergei," he replied.

"Your Romanian is very good, Sergei," she smiled. "What brings you to Bucharest?"

He opened his mouth to reply with a Russian-themed joke, but quickly tossed it aside. Camelia probably wouldn't consider, _'spying for the Motherland'_ particularly funny. "Sightseeing."

"Ahh." Her smile widened into a cheeky grin and she clasped her hands behind her back. "Seen anything that you like, so far?"

"Some nice castles." Some _very_ nice castles.

"I see." The girl's eyes darted quickly around the room, but found no mess to be tidied. When she saw the nesting doll on the kitchen counter, she quickly changed the subject. "Oh, how sweet! That painting is lovely."

"It's for my sister," he lied, before she could ask whether he liked dolls. There was no way he could come away from that without looking ridiculous, crazy, or both. "Back home. She's a vet."

"It must be hard, being away from your family at Christmas." She plucked at a tiny bit of fluff sticking out from her woollen sweater, looking up at him through her long, dark lashes. Bucky merely nodded. "Don't you feel lonely?"

He had, for a while. But now he had a doll to talk to, and a memory to write down.

Suddenly, panic overwhelmed him. It had been over twelve hours, since he'd had that dream, and he hadn't written any of it down. What if it had faded? What if it was fading even now? What colour had Charlie's hat and scarf been? What was the third present Mary-Ann had opened? Mentally, he groped for the facts, letting his body work on auto-pilot.

"No, not really," his mouth said, while his feet carried him to the door. His hand opened it, and waited patiently for the girl to take the hint. "Thank you again for the food. I'll make sure to wash the dish thoroughly when I'm done."

Maybe she said something else, or maybe she looked offended at being so rudely dismissed, but his focus was back in 1928, on a Christmas more than eighty years earlier. This was more important than a smile, even a smile from a pretty girl. He paid only enough attention to notice when she stepped out onto the street, then closed the door and refastened the chain to keep any other crazy people out there from hurting themselves by breaking in.

Finally alone again, he dug his _Family_ notebook out of his bag and took it to the counter, along with the pot of food. It really was a better Christmas meal than one of the microwavable cartons, and he managed to combine eating and writing without slopping everywhere, or crushing the spoon in his cybernetic fingers. With his pen in his right hand, he scribbled down everything, from the smell of breakfast right down to how many candles had been lit on the tree.

Twenty minutes later, he'd committed the full memory to paper, taking up almost four sheets. Now, the _Family_ book didn't look quite so feeble. There was something very real in there. Not just a weak memory, a reminder of everything he had lost, but a part of his history, his life, something he had lived and breathed in a happier, less lonely time.

An image flickered into his mind, a white-haired old woman bent almost double with age, selling hand-made Matryoshka dolls on a dirty street in a forgettable town in early December, just to earn a few _lei_.

 _I am lucky. I may not have a family anymore, or friends, but I did, once. Once, there were people in my life who loved me, and they_ _'re still somewhere inside my head, locked away inside my memories._

He sat up straight as another thought occurred, one that closed up the dark pit below him.

 _I don_ _'t just owe it to the people I killed, to find them and remember them… I owe it to my family, too. I owe it to Mom and Dad, and Mary-Ann, Charlie and Janet… and I owe it to Dum Dum and Falsworth and all the others, to remember who they were, and the good times we had, and the bad times too. I have to remember it all, because who else will remember them? There's only me, now. Me, and Steve. Maybe Steve remembers more than I do—he remembered me, after all, even before I remembered myself—but he can't remember Christmas Day with my brother and sisters, or the way my mom used to make tomatoes the special way, just for Christmas._

"It's time to stop running," he said to the smiling face of the doll. "This is a special day. Christmas has always been a special day. And this is the place where I had my first memory of a Christmas with my family, so this is where I will stay. I won't go south, to Bulgaria. I won't go back to Austria, or France, or even New York… I'll stay right here. And sure, I'm crazy and talking to a doll, but at least you're a _real_ doll, and not an imaginary one."

Satisfied with his decision, he put the doll and the notebook into his bag and returned to the sofa feeling like a new man. Not a happy man, not by any means, but one who had a solid plan. Something to work towards. Specific things to remember and write down, one layer at a time. For now, he'd found a city to call home. For now, he could stop running.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: I wanted to call this chapter, Bucky Wars Episode II: The Socially Awkward Soldier Strikes Back. Common sense overruled me._


	13. The Hundredth Soldier

Running To You

 _13\. The Hundredth Soldier_

 _The air was filled with rumbling snores, some of them so loud that they almost drowned out the creaking, groaning complaints of the USS Monticello_ _'s hull as the Atlantic Ocean tried to crush it inward. Bucky lay awake in his hammock, trying not to think of how much bigger than everything else the ocean was. How much colder, how much darker._

 _There was a quiet squeal of fabric and metal, and a head appeared hanging upside down from the hammock above, a pair of bright blue eyes watching him from above a thick shock of jet-black hair._

 _"Morning, Barnes."_

 _"_ _Morning, Wells."_

 _"_ _I ever tell you what happened to the USS San Fran?"_

 _"_ _Only every single day since we weighed anchor in New York." Wells' favourite way of greeting his comrades each morning was to recount the stories of every U.S. ship sunk in the Atlantic crossing. He was crazy._

 _"_ _U-Boat, less than a day out from the Med. Nothing its escort, the Lansdale, could do except watch the ship go down. Know how many troops were aboard the San Fran?"_

 _"_ _Over six-thousand," Bucky sighed by rote._

 _"_ _Yeah. And you know how much space was available on the Landsale?"_

 _"_ _Not enough."_

 _"_ _Exactly." Wells swung down from his hammock and took a seat on somebody's over-packed duffel bag. "Imagine that. Having to watch all those men abandon their sinking transport, watch them swim to your ship, knowing you can't possibly take them all aboard without sinking your own vessel too. Knowing that there's still a U-Boat down there, setting its sights on you, ready to open fire, knowing your warship is fast enough to outrun it, but not if you hang around to pluck those men out the ocean. Pretty messed up, huh? Coincidentally, do you know how many troops are aboard our fair tub?"_

 _Bucky shrugged. In the fourteen days they_ _'d been aboard the Monticello, he'd come to love Wells like a brother. And also hate him, like a brother. "I dunno. Couple of thousand?"_

 _"_ _Yeah, a couple of thousand. Plus the crew." Wells gave him a cheery grin. "Got a look at our escort ship while stretching my legs on deck last night. It's the Lansdale."_

 _"_ _For Godssake, Wells, stick a cork in it," someone from the 107th grumbled from further down the row of hammocks._

 _"_ _How many additional crew can the Lansdale take?" asked Kenny 'Carrot-top' Robbins, three hammocks away. Bucky could hear the worried tinge in the young man's voice over the creaking of the hull._

 _"_ _Three hundred, maybe four at a push?" Wells gave Carrot another cheerful grin. "Don't worry, Carrot. We're well below the waterline down here. In the event of U-Boat attack, you'll likely be dead long before you have to worry about the Lansdale sailing off and leaving you behind."_

 _"_ _Don't be an ass," Bucky told him. Daniel Wells was probably the funniest person Bucky had ever met, but his humour tended to run at times to jaded cynicism. Wells claimed he was an old soul in a young body. Bucky kinda thought he was just a bit of a jerk._

 _"_ _I can't help it. I come from a long line of asses. I have a legacy to uphold." Wells looked around the cramped tweendeck as more of their fellow soldiers began to wake. "Must be nearly 5am now." He straightened up where he sat, as if preparing for inspection. Of course, if there really was an inspection, he wouldn't be lounging at his ease in his underclothes. "Sergeant Barnes, would you care to join me for a short repast of slop in the galley of this most venerable vessel?"_

 _"_ _Certainly, Sergeant Wells, it would be my pleasure." Bucky slid out of his hammock and grabbed his pants and a shirt._

 _"_ _Et tu, Corporal Robbins?"_

 _"_ _I have no idea what you even said."_

 _"_ _He wants to know if you'll join us for breakfast," Bucky explained. He tugged on his boots and waited for Wells to get up off the ass he liked to talk out of so much._

 _The three men left the tweendeck while the majority of the company were still stirring from sleep. The word_ _'cramped' did not adequately describe their living quarters. Five regiments had been given this area of the tweendeck as their temporary home; five regiments' worth of duffel bags, helmets, gas masks, backpacks, sleeping rolls, field kits and rifles stashed anywhere an open space allowed. A guy couldn't go ten paces without having to scramble over someone else's equipment. It was like the assault course at Camp McCoy all over again, only more precarious, because at least you were_ expecting _an obstacle course back at camp. Half a dozen soldiers had already tripped over equipment and hurt themselves bad enough to end up in the ship_ _'s infirmary._

 _Or, Bucky thought, as he offered an apology when he banged his shoulder against someone_ _'s hammock and almost toppled the guy out, the soldiers who'd tripped had then_ faked it _enough to end up in the infirmary. Pretty spacious, that infirmary. And it had real beds, too. Real beds that didn_ _'t swing with the rolling and heaving of the ship dancing atop the ocean._

 _The galley, with a long, hastily adapted mess hall beside it, was close to the upper deck, facilitating the need for a rather lengthy hike through the bowels of the ship. Bucky led the way, followed by Wells and then Carrot, the latter offering some quiet chatter about a dream he_ _'d had last night; a dream of reaching England, only to be told that the war was over and the Allies had won. A dream of the ship turning around before docking at port, taking Carrot back to his beloved Samantha. Bucky said nothing. He had no right to burst another guy's bubble. Besides, it was nice to dream sometimes._

 _When they reached the galley they joined the back of a long line of men waiting to be served their first of two meals of the day. Bucky had no idea how many regiments were represented aboard the Monticello. Their closest neighbours in the tweendeck were the 101st Airborne Division_ _—the aptly named Screaming Eagles—and the 93rd Signal Brigade. Further down the deck, the 46th Engineer Regiment—nicknamed_ _'Steel Spike'—cohabited fairly quietly with the 9th Infantry Regiment—the Manchus—which made for about five hundred soldiers sharing one huge, open bedroom. It was like sharing a room with five hundred three-year-old Charlies._

 _"_ _You know much about the slave trade, Corporal?" Wells asked, leaning against one of the metal bulkheads of the ship. Bucky fought back a grin, and a few of the nearby soldiers from other regiments drifted closer to the trio. Hearing Wells go off on one of his tangents was usually amusing. Often uncomfortable, but amusing nonetheless._

 _"_ _What? Me? Err, no. Why?" Poor Carrot. He was a nice guy, but he wasn't the smartest fish in the bowl. Wells was too damn smart for his own good. Bucky knew it. Carrot knew it. Wells certainly knew it._

 _"_ _Those slave ships weren't like this fine tub of steel we get to be ferried around in. Big galleys made of wood, no way to pass the time 'cept by tossing knucklebones of deceased crewmen—" Carrot paled "—and singing songs about some big girl named Bertha. Took 'em weeks to cross the Atlantic, back in the old days, even with fair wind in the sails. Know what the biggest danger was?"_

 _"_ _If you say U-Boats, I'll know you're bullshitting and I won't listen to another word you say," Carrot scowled. "Err, sir."_

 _Wells shook his head._ _"Not U-Boats. Not sharks. Not storms. Not even the giant kraken monsters which lurk in the deepest depths of the ocean. No, the biggest danger was scurvy, and rickets, and tooth decay. Imagine it: weeks spent in a floating tub, and nothing to eat except fish caught in the nets. All that salt making you thirsty, no fresh water except the swill you brought with you. No fresh fruit, no milk… you're basically just drying up from the inside. Then your teeth start to fall out."_

 _"_ _Shut up."_

 _"_ _Of course, the slaves had it worst. Weeks below deck, no moving around, no sunshine. Just long, hellish days below the waterline, withering away in the dark, cramped together, chained to the guy next to you, and to the hull of the tub. And if a slave died, it might be days before the crew took him away and tossed him over the side." The line shuffled forward, and Wells continued gleefully. "The worst journeys were the ones right at the end. See, the world was starting to say, 'Hey, this slavery bullshit, it's not right.' So everyone still trading in slaves knew their time was numbered, and had to make the quickest buck. Used to be they'd take fifty or sixty at a time. Slaves got to move around on deck a bit, get some exercise, because what the hell, right? You've got all the time in the world, and a whole continent of black people to exploit. Might as well make sure your slaves get to the New World fit and ready to work._

 _"_ _But at the end, they couldn't afford to do fifty or sixty at a time. So they packed 'em in there, four, five hundred in a single hold, all chained up in the dark, no fresh water, no fresh food. You take fifty or sixty and afford them a bit of attention and exercise, and most of them might make the journey. But four hundred? You can't let that many slaves out, they might start something. So they just put 'em down there and every couple of days they threw a load of saltwater down, and at the end of the journey—keep in mind, this took weeks—they'd open up the hold and see how many were left, and they'd be lucky to get half of them out alive, all wilted and emaciated 'cos they'd been in the dark and fed nothing fresh for weeks."_

 _Bucky felt his insides squirm throughout Wells_ _' monologue. He knew the guy was mostly bullshitting, but that didn't make the bullshit any easier to imagine. And Carrot seemed to be swallowing it pretty hard._

 _"_ _Is there a reason you're telling me this, Sarge?" asked Carrot, as the line moved again and Bucky and his friends neared the front of the queue._

 _"_ _Just educating you on the fine, upstanding naval traditions of our fair country, Carrot," Wells grinned._

 _They reached the front of the line, picked up a tray each, and had something lumpy and yellowish-beige slopped onto it. Three dented spoons followed._

 _"_ _Ahh, grits," Wells sighed melodramatically. "All praise President Roosevelt; no expense spared." He lifted his blue eyes to the galley cook who'd served him. "I hear the Lansdale crew get a proper fry-up every morning. Can you confirm?" The cook responded with steely silence. Judging by the grip on his ladle, Bucky suspected the guy was a hair away from beating Wells to death with it. Fourteen days straight of grits for breakfast had eroded his friend's ability to hold back the full extent of his sarcasm._

 _"_ _C'mon," Bucky said, nudging Wells away from the serving area. "You can be an ass with us because we're your friends, but don't be an ass to the crew 'cos you know they'll take it out on all of us at dinner time."_

 _"_ _You're asking me to discriminate," Wells replied. "I gotta share the love. I can't let you guys get it all."_

 _But Wells let himself be directed away, to one of the standing shelf-like tables in the mess. It wasn_ _'t the most comfortable way of eating. The long tables running the length of the mess were designed to allow a hundred men to eat whilst moving down from one end to the other, and they were the only way an entire complement of soldiers being taken to the front lines could be served twice a day. The Monticello wasn't too bad, because it could only carry a couple of thousand men, but some of the larger transports must've been hell to live in. Six or seven thousand soldiers at a time, all trying to eat, and drink, and sleep, and get exercise up on deck… made a guy appreciate the Monty and its grits._

 _At the end of the table, they rinsed and dumped their trays into a rapidly growing pile, and left the noise of the mess behind._

 _"_ _Don't know why they don't just feed us out of a trough," Wells sighed. "Trust me, boys, they'll have troughs installed before the end of this campaign." He rubbed his hands together. "So. I need to get some slightly less stale air. Stretch my legs. Who's with me?"_

 _"_ _I'm gonna go back to the tween, write my girl a letter," said Carrot. He'd already written four letters to Samantha, on the two-week voyage, which had been dutifully squirrelled away in his duffel, ready for posting when they reached port. Bucky hoped she liked reading the same thing over and over again; it wasn't as if anything worth writing about had actually happened. The first day aboard had been a novelty, but that novelty soon wore thin._

 _Bucky let Wells lead the way to the upper deck, where they were met by one of the ship_ _'s crew who forced life-jackets onto them. Not for the first time, Bucky wondered how many clumsy soldiers had actually slipped and fallen overboard. No soldier was allowed up on deck without the equipment, though the crew managed just fine. He posed the question to Wells as they dodged the mass of soldiers taking advantage of the first non-rainy day all week to get some fresh air and sun._

 _"_ _I don't think it's in case you fall," said Wells. "I think it's so that if you're up on deck when the U-Boat attacks, you stand a chance of floating until you can be rescued."_

 _"_ _Then why don't they make the sailors wear them, too?"_

 _"_ _Well, because they're sailors. They're supposed to go down with their ship, aren't they?" Wells grinned. "We don't get to go down until we reach the front lines."_

 _"_ _Wonder where we'll be posted," Bucky mused. France, Greece, Italy, Africa… once, they'd been nothing more than names on a map, places mentioned in school, foreign countries full of exotic words and even more exotic people. Now, those distant lands had gotten a hell of a lot closer._

 _"_ _I don't care where we end up. Fighting's fighting, it doesn't really matter where you do it." Another of Wells' trademark grins danced across his face, filling his blue eyes with excitement. "I'm more interested in getting to London."_

 _"_ _Why?"_

 _"_ _English dames, pal. Something about their accents sends chills up my spine. And down it, too." Wells threw an arm around Bucky's shoulders, gesturing expansively with his free hand as he lay out a scene. "Picture it. The women of London, missing their dads and their brothers and whatnot… all depressed because they only just got outta one big war which deprived them of a large number of their men-folk… we're already practically heroes just for signing up to come over here. We'll sweep into London with our roguish good looks and wild frontier charm, go dancing every night before we're posted—"_

 _"_ _You_ have _seen Corporal Robbins, right?_ _"_

 _Wells gave a dismissive wave._ _"Forget him. We're leaving him behind. He has_ darling _Samantha, anyway. He wouldn_ _'t dare step out, he's not an idiot. It's you and me. So anyway, beautiful English dames, surrounded by all that culture, and—"_

 _"_ _And didn't London just get the hell blitzed out of it?" Bucky interrupted again. "Surrounded by all that rubble, more like."_

 _"_ _C'mon pal, this is my parade, and I didn't bring an umbrella. Work with me here. London's rebuilt. Trust me, it's there, it's not going anywhere. If a plague and a Great Fire and some guy with a load of gunpowder couldn't get rid of it, a few German bombs don't stand a chance. So, first opportunity we get, we need to—"_

 _A sudden and loud cry from one of the ship_ _'s crew cut off Wells' plans of seducing England's entire population of eligible dames. "LAND!"_

 _When he saw the grin on his friend_ _'s face, Bucky knew it mirrored his own. Together they joined the flood of soldiers racing to the port—or was it starboard? Ah, who cared!—side of the ship for their first sight of land in two weeks. Bucky felt like a kid getting ready for his first day of school. No… like a man getting ready for his first date. This was it. This was the_ real _start of the war._

 _"_ _White cliffs," said Wells, squinting at the tiny sliver of land on the horizon. "Give it an hour, and we'll be seeing white cliffs. From there, it's just a short march to London. We'll be sipping beer and wooing dames by this time tomorrow. Mark my words, Barnes. Mark them."_

o - o - o - o - o

Bucky's eyes flickered open. His ears met silence. New Year's Day. Bucharest had partied late into the night. Late into the morning, technically. Bucky had heard the fireworks still going at 2am; they'd kept him awake for almost an hour, their bangs and pops and whistles bringing back unpleasant memories of being fired upon by German weapons. Maybe that was what had prompted the dream.

There had been no dancing with beautiful English dames in London. Partly because Wells was an ass with an overactive imagination. Mostly because the _Monticello_ had come to dock in Plymouth, which was right on the other side of the country and surrounded by nothing but open moorland. Luckily, Bucky hadn't let himself get invested in his friend's delusions… otherwise he might've been heavily disappointed by Plymouth.

From his position on the couch—because who needed a bed when you had a hostel to yourself and a comfortable couch at your disposal?—he reached for his bag and pulled out two books; _War_ and _Friends._ Here, he faced a dilemma. Many of the friends he'd made prior to his second capture by Hydra had been in the army, which meant they automatically became a part of _War._ But which was the most fitting place for them?

In the end, he went with _Friends._ Sitting up, he took the cap off his pen and began to write.

 _I had a dream last night about the voyage from New York to England. God, I can still taste the grits, feel the cold sea air on my skin_ _… and showers. They were awful. The showers used sea-water, it used to scour your skin raw. But most of all, I remembered Wells. Sergeant Daniel Wells. He was the closest thing I had to a best friend in the army… hell, we bonded right away over our mutual love of Rita Hayworth. I don't know what happened to Danny. I mean, I know he died. I know he never made it out of Austria… maybe he didn't even make it out of Azzano. Part of me doesn't want to know. I wanna remember him as he was, not as some corpse._

 _I think I hate war._

 _When I signed up, it seemed the only sensible thing to do. I wasn_ _'t afraid to fight. Not afraid of hard work. Not even afraid of dying, because I was young and naïve and I was gonna live forever. You send a hundred soldiers out on a mission and tell them, 'Only one of you is going to come back,' and each and every one of them will think, 'Those poor ninety-nine bastards.' Never occurs to you that you'll be one of the ninety-nine. That was me. That was Wells. We were the one out of the hundred that would come back. We couldn't die. But Wells did. That's what war is. Deep down, war is loss._

When he realised he was meandering too far into melancholic rambling, he switched to writing down the details from his dream, recording them as they had played out for his mind. Then he grabbed his _Me_ book and put a note to refer to his _Friends_ book for some thoughts about war and loss. Yeah, he was definitely going to need another _Me_ book soon.

But not today. Today it was New Year's Day, and nothing was open. Camelia had been by a couple of times, to pick up the empty pot, to make small talk and smile at him. Old Bucky would have welcomed her attention. New Bucky found it kinda wearying. What was it the New York motel owner's wife had said? _You have a pretty face._ Old Bucky had made the most out of that, a resource to be exploited for personal gain. New Bucky didn't care much what his face looked like. What did the outside matter, when you were broken on the inside? What he needed, what he really needed, was somebody who would see past his face, and his metal arm, and everything else on the outside, and focus on what was _inside_.

The ability to look beyond the surface was not something easily found. People, in general, were fickle and superficial. He knew it, because he had been one of those people. He chased the pretty girls, and if they had brains too, well that was just a bonus. How many people looked for brains before beauty? How many people thought to themselves, _'Well actually, that guy or girl has a nice personality. Maybe I can learn to overlook a glaring physical flaw,'_? Very few, he was sure. And it wasn't humanity's fault, because nature had made them like that.

Nature could be a real bitch, at times.

He put his books of memories away and made himself a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of black coffee. He ate at the kitchen counter, devoting more focus to studying the paper maps he'd printed at the local library than to eating his food. Now that his decision to remain in Bucharest had been made, he needed to learn about his new home. Unlike in New York, he didn't have a patchy memory of past times to rely upon. Here, everything was new. Everything was different.

To pass time until the rest of the world returned to its regularly scheduled programming, he pored over the maps, committing them to memory, learning the street names, the locations of conveniences, places of interest… places he could hide. Places he could lose an enemy, if he had to get out fast. Just because the world had forgotten about the Winter Soldier didn't mean the status quo would be maintained. Steve knew that he was alive, and from his memories he knew that Steve was one hell of a stubborn S.O.B. Hydra knew about him, too, and if Hydra weren't as stubborn as Steve, they were certainly more dangerous.

But more than that, Hydra's files had been leaked. The internet had become a toxic dumping ground for anybody and everybody who wanted to spread secrets across the globe. All of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra's intel had found its way to the proverbial elephant's graveyard, and so far the only thing working in Bucky's favour was that the general populace was more interested in seeing hacked images of nude celebrity selfies, than they were in deciphering encrypted and encoded data about Hydra's clandestine activities. God bless celebrities.

As the day wore on, he turned to the television for entertainment. At first he watched the news, but it was boring. In fact, he suspected that they were merely showing a re-run of yesterday's news. The anchorman and his perky co-host were wearing exactly the same outfits as the day before. Wasn't news re-runs some sort of crime?

He switched to another channel and watched an old film called _Oliver Twist_. It sounded familiar. Had he read the book it was based on? Had he glimpsed the name somewhere, on some mission for Hydra? Old film it might be, but it still wasn't as old as him. Few things were, it seemed.

After the film, which was kinda okay, he found another channel. It claimed to be showing something called _reality television._ For some reason, reality television included a tropical island, and lots of blonde, tanned girls, and men who looked like they'd spent the past six months honing their abs. All they did was walk around, talking to the camera. Sometimes there was sunbathing. Sometimes there was volleyball. Mostly it was boring. And another such channel was even worse. It was people. In a house. Doing regular people things and talking to a camera. What was the point? Who on Earth wanted to watch somebody sitting in a house doing boring, every-day things?

An uncomfortable, paranoid feeling rose up from the depths of somewhere between _boredom_ and _Soldier_. He left the TV and did a top-to-bottom check of the hostel. He even took the light bulbs out of their fittings. When he failed to find any hidden cameras, no poorly concealed microphones, he returned to the television and browsed the channels for something less _real_ , less paranoia-inducing, than 'reality'. In the end, he settled for a TV show set in America, in which two FBI agents investigated the type of things Steve and his new friends probably found themselves frequently embroiled in. It was much more entertaining than the island.

Just after midnight, he turned off the TV and took his _Me_ book from his bag. It was time to start a new chapter of his life.

 _Today is the day after New Year_ _'s Day,_ he wrote. _The year is 2015, and I am ninety-seven years old. I_ _'ve spent most of my life as somebody else, and now I'm beginning to find me again. I'm learning new things every day. For example, today I learnt that reality TV is nothing like reality itself, and that a lot of News is actually Olds. Also, most 1990s federal law enforcement officers favoured the trench-coat ensemble._

 _Tomorrow I will find a job and look for somewhere more permanent to live. This will be my last entry in this notebook. In the three months since I_ _'ve been keeping this diary, I've filled one book with_ Me. _Given that six months ago I barely even understood the concept of individuality, I consider that quite an accomplishment. I know it may not seem like much, but this book_ _… it ensures that I will always remember who I am. That even when I am gone, some part of me might live on._

 _Right now, everything is difficult, and painful, and new. Right now, I need to be alone. I need to find myself. I need to be away from prying eyes, from judging eyes. I hate the idea of being exposed. Known. It makes me feel vulnerable. But one day, when this is all behind me_ _… or when I'm too dead to care… I would like the world to know. What Hydra did to me. What they made me do to others. That their Winter Soldier was never a willing weapon… that were it not for their mind-control, he would have turned on them a thousand times over. And I want the world to know how sorry I am that I couldn't be stronger. That it took me so long to fight back, and remember. I don't want my legacy to be one of bloodshed and violence. I want them to know that deep down, underneath all that Hydra brain-washing, I was always here._

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: The 'hundred soldiers' concept is from a book, but I'll be damned if I can remember which one. I'd like to say it's from 'The Memoirs of Cleopatra' by Margaret George but my memory is pretty sketchy (I don't have notebooks), so if you come across this concept elsewhere, don't think "OMG Spaceman plagiarism!"_


	14. The Thousandth Man

Running To You

 _14\. The Thousandth Man_

Bucky forced himself to sit still as he was scrutinised by a harsh pair of grey eyes. He'd abandoned Sergei two interviews back. Nobody in Bucharest wanted to employ Russians. He should have expected it, from a former Eastern Bloc country, but he hadn't really been thinking strategically at the time. Now he was Jacques, the name borrowed from his Howling Commandos friend. The people here seemed to like the French, and they couldn't tell that he wasn't a native Francophone.

"Do you have any career aspirations?" the man asked, his grey eyes scanning the form Bucky had completed half an hour earlier.

"I just want to do good, honest, hard work," he replied. "I'm not interested in career progression." He'd purposely written down some low grades on the 'education' section of the form. A labourer didn't need brains. That was who he was, now. An average guy. Below average, in fact. Just someone looking for work. Any work.

"Why did you leave France?"

"My parents moved there when I was a kid, and I don't remember much about my life before that," he lied. "I decided it was time to come back." Keep it simple. No need for elaborate stories.

"Hmm." The man looked up, and Bucky held his breath. He'd picked this place because, officially, the shipping company employed thirty men to work in its busy warehouse in an industrialised area on the south-eastern edge of Bucharest. Unofficially, the number was twice that, and Bucky was perfectly happy with 'unofficial.' He didn't need a pension plan, and if staying off the books meant he got paid cash at the end of every week and didn't technically exist in any system, well, that was even better. "I have a position available, but only one. It's on a night shift. It means working weekends, too. 10pm until 6am, when the day shift takes over. Tuesday and Wednesday will be your days off. If you fail to show for a shift, you don't bother coming back."

"That sounds fine to me," Bucky agreed. He could use Tuesdays and Wednesdays to continue his research, and it wasn't as if he needed a full eight hours' sleep every day.

"Pay is on Friday. If your shift fails to meet its productivity quota for the week, you get paid Saturday instead."

"You'll find me very productive."

"Very well then, Jacques. You will start tomorrow night, and I'll inform the shift manager to expect you at nine-thirty, so that he can show you the ropes."

Bucky smiled. Lifting boxes and packing crates. How hard could it be?

An hour later he found himself in Lipscani, the old town area of Bucharest, in a fairly good mood. He had enough money in his pocket to see him through 'til Friday, and a new job to start tomorrow night. _This is it,_ he thought, as he strolled down the main street. _The beginning of the end of my life of crime. I_ _'ve broken into my last ATM machine. From here on, I'm just like anyone else. Break into an ATM machine? No sir, I haven't broken into any ATM machine. I'm now gainfully, illegally, employed._

A commotion ahead stopped him in his tracks, voices raised in anger. Inside him, the Soldier roused, ready to leap into defensive mode—which, for the Soldier, was exactly the same as offensive mode. When Bucky realised the shouting wasn't aimed at him, however, he relaxed, and the Soldier went back to sleep.

Two men tumbled out of a doorway, flinging Romanian expletives at each other, drawing a group of spectators, while two other men tried to interject, to calm them down. Bucky stood back with the crowd, watching with wary interest. A few elderly people threw disgusted glances at the arguing pair and went on their way, but the majority of the onlookers seemed to think this was the most excitement they would get today.

A punch was thrown, one man hitting the other square on the jaw. Bucky felt his body try to twitch into action, but forced himself to remain still. This wasn't any of his business. He couldn't get involved. Geneva had been different, that had been a crime, with a clear victim. This wasn't a crime, it was two men blowing off steam. Men needed to do that, sometimes. They blew off steam. Spoke with their fists when they couldn't speak with their words. Besides, their two friends were there, trying to pull them apart. There was no need for him to wade into the fray.

 _Flash._

 _The air was charged with nervous excitement. It hadn_ _'t taken long for word of land to spread, and before midday every single soldier had been up onto the deck to feast his eyes on the sight of England. Carrot had returned to the tween deck almost immediately, to add to his letter a vivid description of how green and beautiful England looked after two weeks at sea, even though he'd only got a short glimpse of a greyish-brown coastline. The guy had one heck of an imagination._

 _That had been twelve hours ago. England had grown steadily larger_ _—and greener, Bucky was pleased to note—and at long last the ship had come into Plymouth harbour_ _… and waited. They had waited and waited. After midday, the soldiers had been ordered below deck, instructed to pack up and remain in their quarters until called for debarkation._

 _"What's taking so long?" Carrot grumbled. He was sitting atop his duffel, like half of the soldiers were, his photo of Samantha in his hands. "We're here, why won't they let us get off this death trap?"_

 _"_ _For reasons of common sense which have no doubt gone over your head, Corporal," said Wells._

 _"_ _Enlighten us lowly grunts, Sarge." A few other servicemen were clustered around Bucky's hammock, most of them looking less twitchy than Carrot. Bucky supposed that was what you did, when you weren't certain about something. You stuck close to the guy with the highest rank. Followed his lead. Too bad there were no officers for Bucky to stick close to. All the officers were already in England, already on the front lines._

 _"_ _Y'wanna help me enlighten the men, Sergeant Barnes?"_

 _Bucky gave a dismissive wave. Heckling the lower enlisted ranks was one of Wells_ _' favourite pastimes, and it was mostly harmless banter. This would probably be the last chance his friend got to do it._

 _"_ _Alrighty. First of all, how are you gonna get to shore, Carrot? Your gear weighs over a hundred pounds, your helmet is a commode of solid steel, and your rifle won't be worth shit after you've taken it for a moonlit swim in the harbour."_

 _"_ _Well," Carrot sulked, "I expect there'll be boats."_

 _"_ _Yeah, but the boats aren't here on the Monty, are they? Unnecessary weight. So, the boats come from port. What do you think, the English just leave their flotilla in the middle of the harbour, prime target for Kraut planes and U-Boats? No, they gotta assemble the fishing fleet to bring us to shore, right? And since it's too dangerous to tell a port exactly when a shipload of brave American soldiers is expected, lest we draw the ire of our fiendish foes, they weren't expecting us right now, so it'll take 'em some time to get those boats out here."_

 _"_ _Wait a minute," Bucky interrupted, pretending to hunt around his belongings. "I think I got your soapbox around here somewhere."_

 _"_ _Hardy-har, Barnes. Anyway, as I was saying… we need small craft to get us to shore. Only an idiot would do that in broad daylight. What if there's a U-Boat down there waiting to take a pop? What if an enemy plane flies overhead and sees us debarking? Who knows how many German spies are in that port, counting us like sheep, ready to report back troop movements to their damn Führer? Why do you think we embarked in New York in the pitch black of night in the first place? That, Corporal Robbins, is why we're sittin' here in this death trap. Any other questions?"_

 _"_ _I got one," Bucky grinned. Wells could be a little harsh sometimes, and the 107th were tense enough already. "Do you have to go sideways through doors, to get your big head through them?"_

 _A few of the soldiers laughed, and Wells gave him a punch on the arm._ _"I actually have my arrival announced by a troupe of dancing children. They enlarge the doors for me in advance. But thanks for your concern, Sergeant Barnes, it is duly noted."_

 _"_ _Hey Sarge," said Franklin, pulling Wells' attention away from Carrot. "You wrote any letters home yet?"_

 _"_ _Naw. Who'm I gonna write to? My folks got four sons in the forces now, so I didn't get a tearful farewell, just a 'Don't go leaving a bunch of bastards in every port' as I went out the front door. Come to think of it, I might've told my dad I was joining the navy, like my oldest brother, Tim. Guess that explains the warning. Tim's got two bastards at least, and I think one of 'em's in the Phillies."_

 _"_ _Don't you have a girl waiting for you?"_

 _"_ _Sure. One in every port. Two, in some." Wells grinned. "I'm not the one-rider type, Franklin. You settle for one girl, and soon enough you've got a house and a mortgage and a bunch of kids runnin' around driving you crazy. I really do admire guys like Carrot here, who can be happy with one girl for the rest of their lives." He clapped a hand atop Carrot's knee, making the young corporal jump._

" _Really, Sarge?" Carrot sounded shocked by Wells' admission of admiration._

" _Yeah, of course," Wells smiled. But there was a wicked gleam in eyes that made Bucky sit up a little straighter. Whatever his friend was up to, it couldn't be good. "I mean, I really do admire your dedication, and your love, and especially your self-control."_

" _Err, self-control, Sarge?"_

 _Wells gestured at the picture in Carrot_ _'s hands. "Sure. You bring her out every night and just look at her. If it were me, I'd be doing more than looking. I'd be asking the rest of you to get the hell out of the tween for twenty minutes, maybe thirty if it had been a few days. Whaddya say, Corporal? Last night on the Monty. Y'want us to give you and your girl a little alone time?"_

" _I should have known you weren't being serious, Sarge," Carrot scowled._

 _Bucky sent a mental plea for Wells to leave it there. Of course, Wells was an ass, so he didn_ _'t._

" _I'm being deadly serious, Corporal. Tell you what then, since you're not making the most of your pretty girl, what about sharing a little love with the rest of us? I know I wouldn't mind ten minutes alone with Samantha, and Franklin's got nobody wai—"_

 _Bucky had watched as Carrot_ _'s face turned an angry shade of red from his neck up to his hairline, so he was ready to move as soon as the Corporal lunged at Wells; he managed to catch the younger man in a tackle, wrestling Carrot to the ground as he flailed and shrieked curses at Wells. There was no chance of Carrot seriously hurting Wells—the guy was almost as good at boxing as Bucky—but the last thing he wanted was for Carrot to get the rap for assaulting a fellow soldier before he'd even reported for duty._

" _Hey fellas, why don't you take Wells for a walk up the tween deck… let him loose on the 101st, and mind his head in those narrow gaps," Bucky instructed the others present, as he held Carrot pinned to the floor in an arm lock._

 _Carrot continued to flail ineffectively as the rest of the group shepherded Wells up the deck, to where the 101st were holed up. Only when his friend was out of sight did Bucky release the struggling young man._

" _You shouldn't've stopped me, Sarge," Carrot scowled, straightening his shirt. "Wells had it coming."_

" _Maybe. But you know what Wells is like. He didn't mean anything by it."_

" _He did, Sarge. I could tell."_

 _Bucky plucked the picture of Samantha, dropped in the scuffle, up from the floor and handed it back to Carrot._ _"Next time, Corporal, just ignore him. He's only jealous you've got such a pretty girl waiting for you back home."_

" _Yeah, maybe. Sorry, Sarge. Guess I just lost my head a little."_

" _Well, get it found." Bucky gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. This wasn't the only fight he'd seen narrowly averted over the past few days, but it was the first involving the 107th. "We're all tense, it's been a rough two weeks, but now we're here you can't go letting Wells, or anyone else, get to you. Save it for the Krauts, alright?" Carrot nodded. "Good. Now, get yourself straightened up. I'm gonna send the guys back, it can't be much longer 'til we leave."_

 _He left Carrot and made his way up the deck, eyes and ears open for the sound of another fight. Luckily, the prospect of debarkation seemed to have doused the flames which had erupted so often in close quarters; everybody seemed to be getting along with their hammock-neighbours._

 _In the area appropriated by the Screaming Eagles, he found Franklin, Tipper and Davies watching a game of poker, into which Wells had insinuated himself. Bucky nodded at the Privates and they left the way he_ _'d arrived, heading back to their own little corner of the tween. For a moment he stood watching as another round of cards was dealt. Wells had a two-pair of kings and tens. The last thing he wanted was another regiment pissed at his friend._

" _He folds," Bucky said, plucking the cards from Wells' hands and laying them face down on the table._

" _Sorry boys, my mom wants a word with me," Wells said, with an apologetic smile for the Screaming Eagles._

 _A little further down the deck, in the two-foot no-man_ _'s-land which separated the 101st from the 93rd, Bucky stopped his friend, waiting for Wells to turn and face him._

" _You were out of order back there, Danny," he said._

" _But funny, no?" Wells grinned. When Bucky didn't return the expression, the smile slipped from his face. "Damn,_ James _, that_ _'s one hell of a poker face. Remind me never to play against you." He rolled his eyes. "Alright. I'm sorry. Okay? You know I was just goofing around."_

" _At the start of the voyage you were goofing around. Now, with Carrot, you're just being plain mean. You know he's crazy-stupid where his girl's concerned. You were prodding him on purpose."_

" _Yeah." Wells sighed and ran a hand through his jet-black hair, his blue eyes troubled. "You got me."_

" _Do I get an explanation?"_

" _Hell no. You're not actually my mom, Barnes. I don't answer to you. And don't do that rank-pulling bullshit on me; we have the same rank an' I got seniority on account of the fact that I got called up a week before you." Bucky opened his mouth to object, but Wells hurried on. "Look, I said I'm sorry, and I mean it. That wasn't me being flippant. And when we get back, I'll apologise to Carrot too, okay?"_

 _Bucky decided to let it rest. Whatever Wells_ _' problem, he seemed ready to let it go. "Okay."_

" _And I appreciate you stopping Carrot from doin' anything stupid. I didn't wanna have to hurt the kid."_

" _Well, I had to stop one of you, and he listens to reason better than you."_

" _Amen."_

" _If you feel like you need to make someone your punching bag, do me a favour and lay off Carrot, okay?"_

" _You have my word." Proving, not for the first time during the voyage, that he really did run hot and cold, Wells threw an arm around Bucky's shoulders, and with a familiar grin and a nefarious gleam in his eyes, said, "So, Sergeant Barnes. Do you know much about the slave trade?"_

 _Flash._

Bucky closed his eyes against the harsh glare of winter daylight, momentarily blinded by the invasive brightness. The image of Wells' face faded from his mind, along with the sound and smell of five hundred guys crammed between decks of a converted troop transport ship. The Romanian street came back into focus; the angry shouts, the watching crowd. Then, as swiftly as it had started, it was over. The fight ended when more men appeared to pull the two combatants apart, and after a few more harsh words spat at each other—leaving no doubt as to what had prompted the fight in the first place—the men went their separate ways.

 _You were right, Steve. There_ _'s always a girl._

Poor Carrot. He really had been a nice guy, a decent kid. It wasn't his fault that he'd been born ginger, and kinda freckly, and that he'd managed to nab himself a girl who looked like the type that wouldn't usually be interested in Carrot. Carrot had often been the butt of the 107th's jokes, but there were times when Wells took his jokes too far, when Bucky had to pull his friend back before he got himself into trouble with the CO.

When the crowd on the street dispersed, so did Bucky. He'd planned to celebrate his newfound employment by buying something half decent to eat for dinner, but now he wasn't hungry at all. Instead, all he wanted to do was get back to the hostel, to write down his memory of his last night on the _Monticello_ before it could slip away through his cybernetic fingers.

o - o - o - o - o

The last piece of newspaper went up on the window, taped into place around the edges. It didn't block out all of the light, but it cut out _some_ of it. Enough of it. And with the windows papered up, nobody would be able to see in to his apartment. Not that anyone _could_ see into an apartment window that was more than ten storeys up… not unless they were in planes, or helicopters. Or operating remote camera drones. Or could _fly_.

 _No, no, that_ _'s stupid, you're being paranoid now,_ he told himself. _Nobody_ _'s going to be in a helicopter, or operating a drone, or flying right outside your window. That sort of stuff only happens in those spy moves you've been watching too much of._

He put down his roll of tape and dropped into a chair he'd salvaged from another part of the building. Taking a deep, calming breath, he forced his mind to emptiness, flooded his lungs with air, tried to slow his racing heart. He'd been in his new apartment for two damn weeks before he'd finally figured out why he woke up every day feeling panicked and nauseous.

The apartment was too big. Too open. Too exposed. Like the motel room, back in New York, before he'd discovered sleeping in the closet helped. But the apartment here had no closet, at least, not one with a door. So, he'd improvised. If he couldn't make a small, dark space within the apartment, maybe he could make the apartment itself appear smaller. Darker. Less threatening. Less bright.

After landing his job, and against all odds, his good luck had held. Bucharest was a city that was Going Places. Economic growth had given rise to new neighbourhoods of decent, affordable housing built on empty land on the outskirts of the city. Rising wages meant people had more disposable income. They wanted nicer things. Nicer places to live. The new neighbourhoods had seen a huge influx, which in turn had created a vacuum in the ugly, concrete monstrosities that were the dilapidated legacies of the communist era.

Bucky had found himself one such apartment complex in the north-western area of the city, near a major train hub and a metro station. The proximity of the stations was convenient, but noisy. Very noisy. So noisy that anybody with enough money had already moved out of the apartment, leaving behind a chaotic mess and those too poor to afford somewhere better to live. Over half of the building was empty, and those who remained behind were not particularly inclined to be chatty. The rent was cheap because the place was basically a dump, but he had lived in worse places. Spent seventy years living in a freezer box. Anything was an improvement, over that.

With his impromptu window decoration complete, he found himself breathing a little easier. The dim light was more comforting than daylight. More comfortable. Working night-shifts was great, because he could work during the time when his body seemed most active, then come home and get a couple of hours' sleep until the commuter rush passed. After that, the rest of the day was his. Most of his time was spent in the library, researching his past and his victims. Now that he'd found somewhere to settle, he could _really_ get to work on identifying the people Hydra had forced him to kill for them. It was about time he filled his _The Dead_ notebook and gave the restless spirits a little peace of mind.

Bed these days was a mattress on the floor, but again, he'd slept in worse places. France. Italy. A cold table in Austria. An even colder one in Siberia. A mattress on the floor was comparative luxury. Hell, he would have settled for a sleeping bag, if it came right down to it.

With a few hours to kill before work, he lay back on his mattress and looked up at the ceiling. _I wonder if I_ _'ll ever stop needing the dark. If I'll ever adapt to the light. To the openness of the world. I don't remember getting all panicked about being out in the open back when I was a mindless Hydra automaton. I wandered around Washington and New York a lot, with imaginary Bingo, and I never once felt worried or nervous. It was only after Zola started appearing, after I was really starting to be myself again, that I started getting those anxiety attacks. That I started craving the small, dark spaces._

 _Maybe this isn_ _'t something Hydra did to me. Maybe I'm just kinda flawed, and always was. Or maybe it's something they did to me the first time, in that factory in Austria… I remember feeling like this, a little, when I got to London. Messed up inside. Like, I knew something was wrong but I didn't know what, and I couldn't talk about it. Maybe it wasn't just shell-shock. Maybe it was something more._

He rolled onto his stomach and made a pillow with his arms, letting his gaze unfocus. Thinking about it wouldn't help. He'd done his best to make his apartment more comfortable. Yeah, it wasn't a closet, but he couldn't sleep in closets for the rest of his life. He couldn't keep living in a box. When he ran out of layers to unpeel, he'd have his life back. At least, so his theory went. By then, he needed to be able to be in the world without it making him anxious. He had a problem, and he needed to fix it.

 _Flash._

 _In the darkness of the tunnel, the tiny campfire didn_ _'t so much banish the shadows, as create them. They danced around the bare rock walls, their joyous saltation a mockery of Bucky's aching legs and blistered feet. Though he wasn't truly cold, his reached his hands down towards the flames, letting them linger for a moment. Next to him, Wells threw a small pebble at one of the shadows, catching it every time it bounced off the wall._

" _How're your feet?" Wells asked at last._

" _Sore."_

" _Should'a worn two pairs of socks."_

" _We can't all be smart-asses," Bucky replied tersely. Sometimes, Wells could be annoying as hell; especially when he knew he was right. "If I'd known when we broke camp this morning that we'd be marching thirty miles through the Alps, I would'a worn two pairs."_

" _Always wear two pairs, just in case."_

" _Noted."_

 _Of course, if the brass had just_ told _the company they_ _'d be headed through the Alps, everyone could have been more prepared. Paranoia ran high in the upper echelon. Every officer had been tight-lipped for days, even though the entire company knew it was only a matter of time before they were ordered to Italy, to finish what had been started on Sicily. Bucky had been hoping that they'd be transported by sea, probably to fortify the foothold that the Seventh Army had gained there, and to push up from the south. He hadn't been expecting a forced march across the mountain range. Nobody had. That was probably why they'd been ordered to do it. Germans thought nobody was crazy enough to march across the Alps. Clearly, they'd never met the U.S. brass._

 _The first few weeks in France had been tense. With German forces concentrated in the north of the country, where they feared the British would try to invade, several U.S. companies had been able to land secretly on the south coast and make their way towards the Italian border, for the inevitable push to take Italy. But just because the German forces were clustered further north, didn_ _'t mean there wasn't a German presence. They had communication bunkers peppered around the countryside, and the Luftwaffe made regular visual passes._

 _Maybe that was why the brass had gone for sending a force across the Alps. Troops at sea were tempting targets, not just for the Luftwaffe but for the Kriegsmarine and their damned U-Boats. It was harder to spot a battalion moving through the mountains, and the harsh terrain was largely undefended. Tonight_ _'s home was an ancient copper mine that the 46th Engineers had shored up before twilight. Nearly 800 men had squeezed themselves into a series of the mines, where they would be protected from sight and from aerial bombardment._

" _This time next week we'll be putting our feet up in Milan," said Wells._

 _Even in the dim light, Bucky could see the dark shadows beneath his friend_ _'s eyes. Ever since Carrot died, he'd been blaming himself. Carrot was never supposed to have gone on that mission; he'd been drafted in at the last minute because Wells was showing off juggling knives in the mess, and one of them had slipped and gone into his hand. It had been so heavily bandaged that firing a rifle was out of the question. Wells had been banned from using knives again, and Carrot had been given his spot on the mission. It had been hard to get a smile out of Wells, since then._

" _Dancing with Italian women, no doubt?" Bucky offered._

 _Wells merely pulled his face._ _"In Milan? No. Rome, maybe." He sighed, and flung the stone he'd been tossing into the fire, dislodging a bit of kindling which spluttered and hissed and made the shadows jump more violently. "What the hell are we doing here, Barnes?"_

" _You mean, why did I sign up? Or why are we being forced to march through the Alps?"_

" _No, here, in this tunnel."_

" _We picked the short straw. Or the Colonel hates us." When his quip failed to elicit a smile, his concern for his friend increased. "You know what we're doing; we're on guard shift."_

 _"_ _Yeah, protecting the rest of the troops in the mine from the rampaging Kraut horde, just the two of us." Wells rolled his eyes. "There's no Germans here. They couldn't even see our fire, unless they were right on top of us."_

 _Bucky shrugged._ _"Colonel wants someone to keep watch, and that someone is us. If you've got a problem with it, you might wanna take it up with him."_

 _"_ _I'll write him a strongly worded letter." Wells threw himself onto the floor beside the fire, laying belly-down so he could watch the flames dance. His rifle was seemingly forgotten behind him. Bucky knew that if any of the officers came up to check on them, they'd be all over Wells for his lack of discipline and vigilance… but he couldn't bring himself to tell his friend to sit up and be prepared to fire at the non-existent German horde. Besides, he could keep watch for the both of them._

 _"_ _Speaking about letters—"_

 _"_ _Don't." Wells scowled at him, his blue eyes shadowed by his falling brows. "I don't wanna talk about letters."_

 _"_ _I was only gonna ask if you've sent any home yet."_

 _"_ _Yeah, well, don't."_

 _"_ _Alright."_

 _Without warning, Wells pushed himself up, grabbed his gun and marched to the tunnel_ _'s exit._

 _"_ _Where are you going?" Bucky asked him, his hand hovering over his own rifle._

 _"_ _To water the trees. And I swear, if you follow me, I'll shoot you in the foot."_

 _Bucky let his friend go. Regulations said no man was supposed to go anywhere alone, but right then, he really did believe Wells would shoot him in the foot if he tried to follow. Besides, it wasn_ _'t as if there was any danger here. And really, how long could Wells take?_

 _He took ten minutes, and as each minute progressed, Bucky mentally kicked himself a half-dozen times for letting his friend go off alone regardless of the threat. When he was sure ten minutes had passed, he picked up his rifle and pushed his aching, complaining leg muscles into a standing position. For another minute he stood there tensing and flexing them, trying to work feeling back into his toes, then he set out on a limp to look for his friend before they could both be court-martialled for breaking regs._

 _Wells appeared from behind a tree trunk as soon as Bucky stepped out the tunnel, the moonlight making him easily visible._ _"Thought I warned you about following me? Can't a guy take a piss without a committee?"_

 _"_ _If it takes you this long, pal, you really should go see a medic, because there is something seriously wrong with you."_

 _"_ _Shy bladder," Wells shrugged, and pushed past him. "C'mon, back in the warren before someone comes to check we haven't been overrun by invisible Germans and discovers us gone."_

 _Back in the tunnel, the shadows had grown smaller, so Bucky piled a few more pieces of wood on the fire and watched as the hungry flames accepted his offering of fuel. Now, if only it were so easy for the rest of the company to get food. Marching on tins and rations made everyone miserable._

 _He settled back down to sit beside the fire, and was glad when Wells did the same. The guy had been fidgety all night, like he just couldn_ _'t bring himself to sit still. Maybe now he'd relax a bit, give himself some rest._

 _"_ _So," Wells said at last. "You got any letters back from home yet?"_

 _Bucky accepted the peace offering._ _"Yeah. A V-mail from my sister, Mary-Ann, a couple of days ago. It came in that supply drop we recovered." Supply drops were a pain, because the pilots always dropped them in the wrong places. Probably did it on purpose, just to screw with the ground forces. The 107th had been sent to recover the drop, and had found their supplies almost five miles out from the designated area._

 _"_ _She the one who's madly in love with me?"_

 _"_ _Only in your dreams," he snorted. "And my nightmares."_

 _Finally, he got a grin out of Wells. It was just a small one, but it was a start. It didn_ _'t dispel the dark shadows beneath his blue eyes, but it did bring a little sparkle back to them._

 _"_ _Is she pretty? Got any pictures?"_

 _"_ _Yes and no. And I'm not just saying that because I'm her brother." He smiled as his sister's face appeared in his mind. Sometimes it seemed every guy in Brooklyn wanted to ask Mary-Ann out to the theatre, or to the rides at Coney Island, or dancing at the music hall, but Bucky made sure to vet each and every one. Maybe that's why she and three of her friends had gone down to Baltimore at the first chance they got, to work in the new shipyard there, building the Liberty Fleet. In Baltimore, there was no-one to vet her choice of dance partner._

 _"_ _I don't suppose she's the type to be swept off her feet by a darkly handsome black-Irish fella with a devil-may-care attitude and more brains than common sense?"_

 _Bucky opened his mouth to say_ _'No,' but stopped himself. That actually sounded exactly like the kinda guy Mary-Ann would be swept off her feet by. Of course, he could hardly tell Wells that._

 _"_ _Sorry pal, but she'd see through your act right away."_

 _"_ _Act? You wound me, Sergeant Barnes. I'm a hundred percent genuine."_

 _"_ _A hundred percent bullshit, more like," he scoffed. "Seriously, 'giant kraken monster'?"_

 _Wells laughed, such a rare occurrence since Carrot_ _'s death that it sounded like a strange—but very welcome—piece of music. "Yeah, you got me there. Okay, so I'm about seventy percent genuine, thirty percent bullshit. Or I guess you can switch those around, sometimes." He glanced up, his eyes scanning the rocky ceiling. "Y'know, they think we're safe down here, but I bet these mines go back to Roman times, at least. One lucky bomb and the whole mountain will come down on our heads… cradle and all."_

 _"_ _Jeez, man, why've you always gotta make everything so macabre?"_

 _Wells looked at him for a moment, his blue eyes thoughtful as he chewed on his lower lip._ _"I think you're the first person to ever ask me that."_

 _"_ _That's probably because you're about seventy percent bullshit."_

 _"_ _Well, yeah," Wells admitted. After a moment he put his gun aside and picked up another stone, turning it over and over in his fingers. "You ever go to church, Barnes?"_

 _"_ _Of course."_

 _"_ _Ever do confession?"_

 _"_ _Yeah." His mom had made him do it, every Sunday after Mass. Problem was, he'd been a pretty straight kid, and despite the occasional impure thought, he didn't really feel he had much to confess about. At thirteen, he'd started inventing reasons to confess, just to satisfy his mother's demand, but the priest had seen through his ruse pretty quickly. Of course, that had given him something_ real _to confess to, but the priest had barred him from confession after that, telling him only to come back when he felt genuinely repentant. He hadn_ _'t been back since. "You?"_

 _"_ _Once."_

 _"_ _Only once? I would've thought a… what was it, a darkly handsome black-Irish fella with a devil-may-care attitude and more brains than common sense, would have had a whole lot of sins to confess to."_

 _"_ _Without a doubt," Wells nodded, as unrepentant as Bucky. "God, my thoughts alone would have an entire convent of nuns saying a thousand hail-Marys for my soul. But… well…" He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, a worried frown etching itself onto his face. "Alright, I'm just gonna come out and say it. Just… don't get all judgemental, okay? I don't think you're the judgemental type, otherwise I wouldn't be telling you this, but…"_

 _"_ _Spit it out, Wells," Bucky instructed. This was just going to be another giant piss-take. Like that whole slave-trade diatribe bullshit. Wells would come out with something stupid and trivial, then laugh at how concerned his friend had been._

 _"_ _Okay." He opened his eyes and tossed the stone into the fire. "See, the thing is, I'm what you'd call… claustrophobic." He quickly closed his eyes again. "Shit, I can barely even say the word without hyperventilating. Don't mind me, I'm just imagining a field. A big, open field, with no trees, and no mountains, and lots of fluffy clouds… no wait, no clouds. Sky goes on forever."_

 _Bucky studied his friend closely. Wells_ _' normally pale skin had been burnt to deep red during the first week in France, and now it had tanned to a pale almond… but even still, his skin looked paler than it had for a while, and a sheen of sweat had appeared on his face. Now, he understood why Wells hadn't been in a hurry to get back from watering the trees. But if his claustrophobia was this bad, why hadn't he said anything sooner?_

 _"_ _Bet you're wondering why I never mentioned this before now," Wells said. He opened both eyes to narrow slits. "Truth is, I thought I could control it. On the boat, I knew it was just two weeks. It was a goddamn hell, but at least there was an end in sight. And I got around it by staying up on deck as much as possible. Even when it was raining, that was better than being in the troop quarters. Never thought I'd have to come into a goddamn mine."_

 _"_ _How long have you been like this?" Bucky asked._

 _"_ _Ever since I was a little kid." Wells gave a humourless snort and sat up a little straighter. "Your daddy ever strap you as punishment?"_

 _"_ _No… he never needed to. Though, one time he did throw a boot at me. I definitely deserved it, though." He couldn't even remember what he'd been doing at the time; all he could recall was that the boot-throwing was justified, and it had never happened again._

 _"_ _My dad was always big on discipline. Came from the Navy, served as an officer until he wasn't fit for it anymore. Highly decorated, skipper of his own warship… and he ran our home like he ran a ship, too."_

 _Bucky sat in silence as a knot of horror formed in his stomach. He wanted to tell his friend to shut up, to stop talking about it. Wells was breaking all the unspoken rules. The rules everybody knew instinctively, like not talking about the particularly unpleasant things unless you could put a twisted, humourous spin on them. Wells was normally an expert on twisted, humourous spins, but Bucky knew this time his friend was just going to tell it straight. And that was something else you never did. You didn_ _'t tell it straight._

 _"_ _The strap was pretty common, until I was about twelve, but it was always followed by the cupboard. And even when I was too big for strapping, the cupboard was there. It was a tiny, dark little coal cupboard under the stairs. It wasn't tall enough for a twelve year old to stand in, so you had to sit, or stoop, and there was no light inside it, so as soon as the door was closed, there was only darkness. It had a lock on the outside, a heavy iron deadbolt, and hearing that bolt slide into place was like hearing the tolling of your own funeral bell._

 _"_ _Weird thing is, getting strapped, that's just pain. It fades. It heals. But the cupboard… you can't heal from that. It doesn't fade. It stays with you. Even when you're out of it, it never truly leaves you. When you're a little kid, you don't understand it. The strap, you understand. But not the darkness. And not why your mom doesn't come to let you out when you start crying. You don't understand that crying only makes it worse. For every five minutes you cry and wail and beg to be let out, you get another half-hour added to your time. That cupboard drove my eldest brother to the Navy, and the next two to the Army. Just to try and get away from it. Get away from the man who put them in there."_

 _"_ _Shit." What else was there to say?_

 _Wells nodded glumly in understanding._ _"My first confession, it was like being back in that cupboard all over again. After that, I couldn't go back. I decided church wasn't for me. Ran away from home every Sunday morning, and got locked in the cupboard for it when I returned every Sunday night. But at least it was a private cupboard, and not some cupboard in the middle of a public church. And at least I knew what my cupboard was about. Those confessional booths? The church? Worshipping a god who either doesn't exist or is deaf to prayers and indifferent to suffering. I'd take the cupboard at home over that any day."_

 _Bucky kept quiet, didn_ _'t even bother trying to offer some excuse on God's behalf. Whatever faith Wells had once possessed had been seriously torn apart by what his own father had put him through. No amount of platitudes would make that right._

 _"_ _So. Now you know. My big secret."_

 _"_ _You ever talk to your brothers about this?"_

 _Wells snorted._ _"Are you kidding? You don't talk to your brothers about this sorta stuff. Hell no."_

 _"_ _That's a shame. I like to think that my brother—or my sisters—could talk to me about anything. Even if it was difficult, or painful."_

 _"_ _That's because you're a better brother than mine. Or a less damaged one. I dunno. It's probably not their fault. When you cry alone in the dark, and nobody comes to reassure you, you eventually learn to stop crying. To just shut yourself down. I guess that's what they did. What I thought I did, until we got to this godsforsaken mine. Anyway, Barnes, thanks for not being all judgemental. And for not making jokes. I can't tell any of this to any of the others… they'd just yank my chain with it."_

 _"_ _My lips are sealed," he promised. "Do you ever… y'know, write to your brothers?"_

 _Wells quickly shook his head._ _"We're not that close. When we were younger, I used to look up to them… they seemed so big, so strong, I thought nothing could ever scare them like I was scared of the cupboard. I had that illusion shattered pretty early. And looking back on it, I think they felt bad that they couldn't protect me. Take you, for example. I've only known you for a couple of months, but I already know you're the kinda guy who'll do anything for his family. You'll lay down your life to protect them, right?" Bucky nodded. "My brothers and I… none of us could protect each other. I think we all felt we'd failed."_

 _"_ _I guess that's understandable," Bucky admitted. And also pretty messed up. A brother was supposed to protect his siblings from the schoolyard bully, from the mean kid down the street, from the cowards who ran in gangs because they were too scared to act alone. But to protect your brothers and sisters from your own father, who subjected you to the very same torture… it was just wrong. "I know you probably don't want my advice, but I wanna give it anyway."_

 _"_ _Hit me."_

 _"_ _I think you should write a letter to your brothers. Even if you don't send it right away. Even if you keep it until after the war. Just have it there, ready, in case it needs to be sent. I know you say you and your brothers weren't close, but I get the impression that maybe you want to be. And if you feel like that, maybe they do, too. Maybe they just don't know how to start things off. This is a pretty broken world we live in right now, and everybody deserves the chance to say what's on their mind. Everyone deserves the opportunity to write letters to the people they care about. To say the things they wished they had the time, or opportunity, or courage, to say before."_

 _Wells sat in silence for a long time, his fingers toying with one of the buttons on his olive-drab jacket. The fact that he hadn_ _'t turned it into some sort of joke showed just how seriously he was taking the suggestion. Finally, he nodded, and met Bucky's gaze._

 _"_ _You're right. I'll do it. A letter to the people I care about. But I'm not gonna send it. I'll hang on to it, like you said, until after the war. Or until it needs to be sent. If… if I keep it in my footlocker wherever we end up making camp, and if I can't send it myself, if it needs to be sent… will you take care of it for me?"_

 _"_ _Yeah. Of course. But don't think like that. You'll deliver it yourself, after the war. In person." Wells' only response was a sad smile, so Bucky brought the conversation back to the point he'd initially been exploring, before his friend's terrible confession. "But I gotta ask one thing. Actually, re-ask, since you kinda evaded it the first time."_

 _"_ _Oh?"_

 _"_ _Why so macabre? Given your claustrophobia, why'd you go on and on at Carrot about all that slavery bullshit, and the U-Boats torpedoing the Monty? Surely that can't have been healthy for you to think about."_

 _A small grin appeared on Wells_ _' face, and Bucky knew then that his friend was going to be okay. "Not sure I should tell you that. Personal trick. But what the hell, maybe it won't even work for you. Maybe it's just a thing I do because I'm crazy and it helps me cope. But I figured out long ago that if something makes you uncomfortable, and I mean_ really _uncomfortable, then you can make yourself feel less uncomfortable by shifting some of that discomfort to someone else. Worried about U-Boat attacks? Make someone else shit their pants at the thought. Kept awake by the terrible food and ever-encroaching darkness? Make someone else fear it more. Doesn_ _'t matter if it's real, it can be total bullshit, as long as someone else is more uncomfortable than you."_

 _"_ _That's pretty messed up."_

 _"_ _Yeah. Just out of curiosity, how uncomfortable are_ you _right now?_ _"_

 _"_ _On a scale of one to ten?" Bucky pondered. "Probably approaching a five." It wasn't every day you had to sit and listen to a friend's torturous childhood nightmares._

 _"_ _Hmm. Talking's been a useful distraction, but I'm still hovering around a seven. That means we need to get you up to an eight, so I feel better." He tapped his chin thoughtfully, the flames of the fire reflected in his eyes giving him a particularly nefarious look as he studied Bucky like he'd just found a new victim to torment. "When you did your winter training, did they ever make you do that thing, for surviving hypothermia? You know, get your squad-mates together, strip naked and huddle in a sleeping bag to share body heat?"_

 _"_ _You're an ass," Bucky scoffed._

 _Wells closed his eyes and leant back against the wall, a smug grin on his face._ _"I know."_

 _Flash._

The dim grey interior of the apartment was close enough to the darkness of the mine tunnel that the world did not spin as Bucky's mind returned him to the present, and because he was lying down, there was no disorientation. Only an outline of the tiny campfire remained seared into his vision, along with the strained face of Wells. How Danny Wells would laugh, if he were here now. A fine pair, the two of them would make; Wells afraid of the darkness and the confined space, Bucky afraid of the openness and the light.

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling again. Wells had claimed God was indifferent, or that he didn't even exist. Bucky wasn't sure. He'd had an epiphany, or something, which had saved him from taking a life back in New York. Saved him from Zola, from letting the Soldier take over again. And there was still the matter of that little seed inside his chest. So far he'd done better with a seed than he had with a dog, imaginary or otherwise. It was still there. He could feel it. A little seed of greatness, just like the priest had said, one that might eventually grow into a tree—or a beanstalk—to reach heaven. He wasn't ready to give up on that seed. Not yet.

"Are you there, God?" he asked the ceiling. "Do you remember me? I used to pray to you when I was a kid. Said Grace before every dinner. I went to see one of your guys a few months ago, and he told me something which really helped me. I don't know if you watch everything that goes on down here, but… well, even if you don't, you've probably met some of my work up there.

"I've done a lot of terrible things. It was all against my will, but I don't know whether that excuses all the lives I took. I kinda think it doesn't. I think I've got a lot of atonement to do. And I'm not sure if I've earned the right to ask things of you, not after all I've done, but I'm going to ask anyway.

"If you have any say in this stuff that my mind is showing me, any say in the memories that are coming back to me… please, leave this one where it is. Just for now. I know Wells never made it home, but I'm not ready to see another friend die. I don't think I'm strong enough for that yet. Being back there, living it all again, on top of everything Hydra made me do… it's too much. I don't wanna drown in my memories; I'm still trying to figure out how to swim.

"So… that's what I wanted to ask. And I wanted to tell you that I'm doing my best. I'd really appreciate it if you could just let my mind have these memories for a while, let me think of my friend as he was when he was alive and a pain in the ass. I don't know whether you need anything in return for that, but in case you do, I promise I'll do all that I can to make up for the destruction I have caused in the hands of Hydra. I can never undo what I did, but maybe one day, when I'm no longer broken, I can be a force for good in the world. On that day, I'll wait for a sign. For another epiphany. And I'll know that you have a greater plan for me."

There was no response, but he hadn't expected one. God, if he even existed, was probably a very busy guy. Thousands of people must be praying to him right now. Maybe it took a while for prayers and requests to get through. Or maybe he'd stopped listening a long time ago. Maybe he no longer answered prayers. After all, if he hadn't answered the desperate pleas of one guy stuck in a small, dark room, what were the chances he would answer another?


	15. Solitary Man

Running To You

 _15\. Solitary Man_

As Bucky hiked up the stairwell in the oppressive mid-summer heat, he fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for his keys, got his fingertips around one and pulled them out as he reached his door. At the last moment, his fingers betrayed him, and the keys slipped from his grasp. He managed to stamp his foot on them before they could slide over the edge of the stairs and fall all the way down to the bottom floor. With a grumble of annoyance, he rearranged the grip on the shopping bag nestled in the crook of his left arm and bent down to grab the keys from the floor.

That was when he heard it.

A creak, inside his apartment. A soft noise, like someone was trying to be covert. Somebody who didn't know which floorboards creaked when you walked on them. It wouldn't have been hard for someone to get in. The lock on his door was faulty, it never fully engaged from the outside. He'd been meaning to get it fixed. Confidence in his own abilities had made him complacent. And now, the Soldier stirred.

On tiptoes, he slid his key into the lock and opened it properly, then ghosted forward into the apartment, every muscle in his body poised for stealth and silence and self-defence.

"Jacques, Jacques!" Two young voices chanted his fake name, and he found Irina and Ion bouncing barefoot on his mattress.

"I've told you not to come in here without me," he growled. They never listened. They'd lived in the building all their lives, and it was their playground. "And stop jumping on my bed."

Eight year old Irina obeyed, appearing suitably chastised as she stepped onto the creaky floorboards. She smoothed down the material of her flowery summer dress, a proper little lady, and gave him her most practised sweet smile. With her dark hair in pigtails, she looked like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

Six year old Ion was Charlie all over again; he gave one particularly big bounce, proclaimed, "I can fly!" and leapt into the air. Bucky managed to hook his free arm around the kid before he could hit the floor, then dumped him onto the room's sole chair. He really needed to get that damn lock fixed.

"What are you doing in here?" He placed his shopping bag on the kitchen unit and glanced down at the floor. When he realised the floorboards were untouched, his memories still hidden safely beneath them, he almost sighed with relief. The children were a destructive and unstoppable force of nature, and they didn't read any English; if they found his notebooks they'd probably use them for doodling. If they doodled on his memories, he would have to kill them, personal promise or not.

"It's Friday!" Irina said, joining him by his shopping bag. When she reached inside, he gently slapped her hand away. She affected a hurt frown that would have put one of Mary-Ann's to shame. "And you're late. Did you forget about us?"

"Of course not," he lied. He hadn't forgotten about the children… merely, forgotten that it was Friday. Hours had flown in the library, and by the time he realised how late it was, he had only half an hour left to do his shopping before the market closed. "Well, go get your book, let's hear how hard you've studied."

Irina skipped to her schoolbag, pulled a book from it and settled down on the mattress. A few seconds later, Ion joined her, and Bucky listened as they butchered their way through some basic translations.

He didn't make a very good French teacher, but it was some way of repaying the family for their kindness. And who knew, maybe one day, knowing French would come in handy for them. They weren't too bad at it, really, just a little young. Didn't they say, though, that children had a better aptitude for languages than adults? That they picked it up faster? Maybe by winter they'd be more fluent than Bucky himself.

As he listened, he unpacked his shopping. Research into his victims wasn't the only studying he undertook at the library; he'd also spent considerable time Googling the best way to enhance memory retention and prevent memory loss. Problem was, every website seemed to have a different idea of the best way to go about it. Plentiful and regular sleep seemed a common theme; not easy for a guy who worked night shifts and had a body which could function perfectly well on just a few hours per week. He'd managed to get himself up to four or five hours per day, but it never felt like a truly deep sleep, of the kind he'd had before Hydra had scrambled his brain.

Exercise, another website told him. So he did. Push-ups and sit-ups were easily done in his apartment, and the first thing he did after getting home from work in the morning was go for an hour-long run. On the bright side, he always slept a little more deeply after his exercise… on the down side, it didn't always result in memory-invoking dreams.

Many sites agreed that diet was an important factor in memory retention, but why did everything that was good for your memory have to taste so bad? Broccoli? Yuck. Nuts and seeds? Bird food. Oily fish? The smell made him feel sick. Blueberries? He hadn't seen them anywhere.

And worse than that, he couldn't cook. At all. That was how he'd ended up tutoring the children in French. The first time he'd tried to cook something more complex than scrambled eggs on toast, he'd filled his apartment and the whole stairwell with smoke so thick that several tenants had actually evacuated in fear of fire. As luck would have it, eggs were on the list of good memory foods, which was lucky, because he ate a lot of them now.

The kids' mom had taken pity on him, the day after he'd almost burnt a piece of Bucharest's fine communist history to the ground, and made a little extra for dinner the next night. She was too proud to accept money or gifts in return—in fact, she'd seemed positively mortified when he tried to buy her a gift—but every once in a while, if she needed something fixing in her apartment, he was happy to oblige. And in return for a decent home-cooked meal every Friday night, he'd offered to teach her children French. In this way he had developed, if not a friendship, at least a tenuous trade agreement.

"I don't know this word," said Irina, holding up the picture book and pointing to an animal on the page.

"Chien," he smiled.

Irina nodded. "My friend Valentina has… deux chien."

"Chiens, plural," he corrected.

"I wish I could have a chien, but mamă says we're not allowed."

"And now in French?"

He only half-listened to her struggle through the sentence; his eyes had fallen on one of the notebooks he'd forgotten to put away. He picked it up off the top of the fridge and scanned over the last few entries, refreshing his memory. Not that it needed refreshing; he, like the rest of the world, had watched the news reports of Sokovia rolling in two months ago… seen the destruction wrought by the crumble and fall of what looked like a floating city. Seen the footage of the Avengers, including Captain America, trying desperately to evacuate the area.

 _Damn, Steve, I don_ _'t know what crazy shit you're mixed up in, but it's pretty messed up._

Still, at least his friend was keeping busy. Saving the world from aliens. Puttin' down Hydra. Stopping floating cities from making humanity a footnote in history. What would it be next week? Foiling the machinations of time-travelling Nazis?

He turned to the front of the book and studied the picture he'd placed there. Pictures of Captain America weren't exactly hard to come by, and it was a picture that never failed to bring a smile to his face. Now, Bucky could remember when Steve had shown up to rescue him wearing that outfit, dressed in colourful tights like some sort of patriotic clown… only, there had been nothing funny about that situation, and nothing funny about Steve. The memory of his friend's decision to keep the red, white and blue had also come to him recently. That night in the _Fiddle_ when Dum Dum had tried to bully him into laying off the scotch. The night Peggy had shown up in that _extremely_ fetching red dress. The first time he could ever remember failing at flirting with a woman, because Peggy had only had eyes for Steve.

A knock on the front door made him jump, made him almost drop the notebook. He quickly put it back atop the fridge and made his way to the front door as Ion began naming fruits. When he saw the kids' mother standing in the doorway with a dish of something that smelt amazing, his first thought was that she was early. Then he remembered that he was actually the one running late. Work was just a few hours away. Time enough for dinner, a shower and an update to his _The Dead_ book with the information he'd gained from the library.

"How are my naughty children behaving for you, Jacques?" the woman asked, eyeing up her offspring when he invited her in. They both looked up from the book and smiled at her. How they always managed to look so quiet and angelic whenever their mother showed up was a mystery.

"They are good as gold, Elena," he assured her. "And they're making good progress."

"I'm glad to hear it. I make them practice every night, before bed." She handed over the dish. "Here. A new recipe I'm trying."

"It smells great," he smiled.

"Well, we'll see. Come on, Irina, Ion, it's dinner time."

"Why can't we have dinner here, with Jacques?" Ion sulked.

"Because," Bucky said, to spare their poor mother the effort, "I have work soon, and a lot to do before I go."

"Besides, it is very rude to overstay your welcome," Elena admonished. "Now come along, and don't forget to say thank you."

"Thank you, Jacques," the children intoned together as their mother herded them out the door.

"You're welcome. And thanks for dinner. I'll let you know the verdict."

"See you next Friday, Jacques!" Irina waved.

Elena gave him a small smile, then took her wayward children and closed the door behind herself. Bucky let out a deep breath, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease. Ever since the confusion when she'd first made him dinner, and he'd tried to thank her by buying her a bunch of flower—because what woman _didn_ _'t_ like flowers?—she'd made it very clear that she wasn't looking for a replacement for her husband nor a father for her children. Knife-point clear, in fact.

It had been a huge relief, but he suspected the children didn't see it that way. And it wouldn't be Friday before they were back, either. They liked to pester him mid-week after school, during one of his days off, for sweets. At first he'd been able to buy them off easily with a bag of candy from the supermarket, but now they tended to stick around even after he'd tried to bribe them into leaving. Really, he ought to find himself a new apartment block… but he'd already invested so much into making this one comfortable, and livable. And besides, there were times when the children made him smile. In some ways they reminded him of his brother and sisters, and now that he was a part of their lives, even if only in a small way, he felt it owed it to them to stick around. He had a language to teach them, and it wasn't as if he was short of free time. He couldn't be—and didn't _want_ to be—a father to them, but maybe he could be a big brother. It had been too long since he'd been one of those to anybody.

o - o - o - o - o

Four times. That was how many times in his life that Steve Rogers had been so nervous, so tense, felt so exposed and _raw_ inside, that he thought he might throw up.

The first time had been in New York, when the wings of Erskine's vita-ray machine had closed around him, sealing him into what felt like a nightmarish tomb. Even though he'd been nil-by-mouth for twenty four hours prior to the procedure, he was still so nervous that he thought he could find _something_ to empty his stomach of.

The second time had been sprung on him without warning, back in England, back in the war. Peggy had shown up at the _Fiddle_ , right when Steve was midway through recruiting the Commandos, and from the moment she'd stepped into the room, he had actually stopped breathing. It had been a different type of nerves and tension. A more pleasant type. But again, it made him glad he hadn't eaten anything recently. He'd always known Peggy was beautiful, but in that red dress, her eyes focused on him like he was the only man in the whole world… thank God he had a spine. Thank God his knees were locked out. Otherwise he might have melted at her feet there and then.

The third time had been Peggy again, almost seventy years later. Looking her up was the first thing he'd done after being defrosted and debriefed by Fury. Even after he'd found her address, he'd argued with himself for months over going to see her. He told himself that he was selfish. That he should just let her go. That seeing her would bring both of them more pain than either of them deserved. But in the end, he couldn't help himself. This was _Peggy_. Standing outside her house, trying to work up the courage to ring the door bell, waiting for her carer to answer… it had been the _Fiddle_ and the vita-ray machine combined into one.

The fourth time was Washington, after discovering Bucky was alive. The knowledge that his friend had endured the fall, and years' worth of Hydra's torturous experiment. And then he'd gone to finish the war he'd declared on Hydra seventy years ago, knowing full well that he'd have to confront his friend, to _make_ Bucky understand exactly who he was, and what he meant to Steve. Not only was Bucky counting on him to succeed, but the whole world was, too.

Today made five. Five times he'd walked that knife-edge of nerves.

As the taxi pulled up at the corner of the street, just down the road from the construction site, Sam turned sideways on the back seat to face him.

"You figured out what you're going to say? Got some fancy speech planned?"

Steve shook his head. His childhood best friend had never cared for speeches, and he wouldn't buy into one now. In truth, Steve had no idea what he would say. He hadn't thought that far ahead. _Couldn_ _'t_ think that far ahead. When he tried to think that far ahead, his stomach turned over and over like it had on the Cyclone that time at Coney Island. Strange, how it never did that before he went into combat. Not when he fought a quinjet with nothing but his shield, not when he went up against armies of Hydra agents, or Ultron's corrupted Iron Legion, not the Chitauri or Loki… but the thought of seeing his friend again, like the thought of seeing Peggy… his shield was useless against that. Inside, he was defenceless. A little kid again.

Besides, there was still one last thing to consider.

"We don't even know it's him, Sam."

"C'mon Cap, you read the article, right?"

"Yeah, I read it. But it doesn't mean it's him."

"A dude gets crushed by three 400lb construction girders. His work-buddy pulls them off him one at a time, saving the dude from being paralysed, and you're telling me that _doesn_ _'t_ sound like something a genetically enhanced Hydra super-soldier with a freakishly strong cybernetic arm could do?"

"No, I'm saying it _could_ be him, but I'm not getting my hopes up on a guy being strong."

"400lbs, though. You're talking Olympic-level lifting. Sure, I could probably lift a steel girder off someone, if I had to. But three of them? And make it look easy, according to the guy who was crushed?"

Steve caught the sigh before it could escape his lips. For the past year, Sam had been telling him to manage his expectations, to not get his hopes up. Every dead-end lead, he'd say the same thing. Now, their roles were reversed. The article Sam had found a few days ago online was the most solid lead they'd had since losing Bucky right after S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse. Now, Sam was the one charging in head-first, and Steve was left trying to get his friend to manage his expectations. A lot had happened, in the past year.

"I do agree it's a solid lead," he told his new Avengers team-mate. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't think it had promise. When I got your call, I dropped everything. I mean, literally, I dropped a barbel on Vision while we were strength-testing him. And I hope to God that this pans out, because I finally want to bring my friend home. I just…" He finally let the sigh escape. "I guess I can't get rid of my inner-skeptic completely."

"What about the rest of the facts?" Sam pushed, albeit in a gentler tone of voice. "According to the man who got crushed, the guy who saved him has only been working there for three months. And he wouldn't do any interview, just released a statement through the construction company, _and_ he didn't want his picture taken for the article."

"Lots of people don't like having their picture taken, Sam. Heck, if every guy who's camera-shy could be the Winter Soldier, then you better check me for a metal arm, too."

"Okay, then the guy's name: Pawel Nowacki. That's the John Smith of Poland. You're not gonna tell me that's his actual name, right?"

"Just because a name's common doesn't mean it's fake."

"Y'know, Cap, I didn't actually bring my umbrella with me, so if you wouldn't mind sending that raincloud back over your way, I'd really appreciate it."

"Just managing my expectations, Sam," he smiled ruefully.

"Oh, _now_ you start listening to me! Don't worry, I can be excited for the both of us."

Was that what Sam thought? That he wasn't excited? Nothing could be further from the truth. He was so excited that if his stomach churned any harder he really _might_ throw up. But _being_ excited and nervous and tense, and _showing_ all those emotions, were two entirely different things. Men looked to their leaders to set an example, and Steve had spent so long setting examples for his men—and women—during the war, during the Chitauri invasion, during Sokovia, that it had long since become second nature to him. Just because he didn't always show it, didn't mean he couldn't feel it as much as any other person alive. Sometimes, he wondered whether maybe he felt it a little _too_ much. Erskine had said, after all, that his serum would amplify everything that was already inside a man. Did that include a propensity for feeling things, too?

It was time to stop putting this off. Time to stop wondering. He paid the taxi driver, then climbed out into the glaring sun. After donning his shades, he looked around at the construction site, and Sam joined him a moment later. Whatever they were building here was going to be big. Probably a shopping mall. Because that was exactly what the world needed. More malls.

"There's the construction office." Sam pointed out a low, corrugated iron building painted white. "I didn't call ahead, figured if Barnes is really here, and he got wind of us coming, he might rabbit again."

"Good thinking," Steve agreed. And it sounded about right. If Bucky really _had_ come all the way to Europe, chances were he wouldn't willingly stick around for another reunion. If Bucky was here, they had to find him, and fast.

"Want me to do the talking? I got a cover story prepared."

Steve couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Twelve months ago Sam had told Fury that he was more of a soldier than a spy, yet here he was, coming up with cover stories, doing undercover work trying to track down the world's most dangerous assassin… Nat had obviously had a bad influence on him. He told his friend as much.

"Hey, what can I say, I gotta keep my skill-set up to date," Sam grinned. "Between you and Rhodey, my soldier credentials look a little thin. Figured I'd try it Romanov's way. I'm not saying I'm ready to trade in my wings for a trench-coat and a garrotte wire, but it can't hurt to learn a few new tricks before I start to get too old."

"Then by all means, talk away," Steve relented. Besides, he wasn't a particularly creative liar; he never had been very good at pretending to be something he wasn't.

At the site supervisor's office, Sam knocked on the door and waited for something to be called out in Polish before letting himself in. The office was pretty cramped, with the desk and several chairs, and multiple filing cabinets, and architect schematics covering nearly every surface, along with the results of geological surveys, and various duty rosters. Steve tried to make himself appear smaller as he squeezed himself into one of the small office chairs. He suspected he didn't do it very successfully.

A plaque on the supervisor's desk named him _H. Minkowski_ , and when Sam introduced himself as 'John Smith', and Steve as 'Roger Stevens', the man shook their hands. He was a heavy-set, middle-aged man with greying hair and an even greyer beard.

"What can I do for you gentleman?" the supervisor asked, in English that was marred only slightly by his Polish accent.

"Mr Stevens and I work for the marketing department of a very high-profile company—I'm not at liberty to divulge which one—that deals with endorsements for a brand of weight-training and fitness supplements in the U.S., and we're looking to expand our business into Europe. Now, when we heard about the accident here last week, and how one of your workers saved a colleague by lifting steel girders off his legs, we knew we'd found the potential face of our brand here in Poland. We were hoping to speak with Mr Nowacki, to hear his version of the events, and if we decide he fits with our brand image, we'd like to consider making him an offer to promote our merchandise."

Mr Minkowski grumbled something in Polish before switching back to English and fixing a scowl on his face. "Ay, first all the reporters, and now you? I can tell you now, Mr Nowacki will not be interested in your offer. He is a good worker. He likes to keep to himself. He has no interest in this media attention. And I am trying to run a construction site here, not a circus."

"I know, and we're really grateful to you for granting us some of your time," Sam said smoothly, in what was probably supposed to be a butter-a-guy-up tone of voice. "We don't want to keep Mr Nowacki from his work, and we don't wanna put you behind. And if it's going to be a 'no', then we'll accept that. We'd just like to hear it from Mr Nowacki himself."

Mr Minkowski's eyes danced around the table as he tried to find some other excuse. "This construction site is a hard-hat area. Nobody is allowed on without the proper work cards and protective equipment."

Steve could tell they were losing the battle. He leant forward, resting his elbows against the desk, and tried to appeal to the man's better nature.

"Please, Mister Minkowski, we don't want to turn your construction site into a media circus. But we've come a very long way to see Mr Nowacki, on a very long flight, and we came straight here from the airport. I know that perhaps to you, and Mr Nowacki, this isn't as important as the fact that he saved a man from certain paralysis. But we really would appreciate it if you would be kind enough to give us just five minutes to meet Mr Nowacki. Even if he doesn't want to accept our offer, we'd still like to congratulate him for saving a colleague. It's a rare thing, to see such shows of altruism these days."

He could see the man teetering, and tried to will him into a more favourable decision.

"Well, I suppose five minutes is not too much to ask. It is nearly break time anyway." The man's eyes hardened again. "But I cannot allow you onto the site. We've already had one close call, and I won't be held accountable for a couple of tourists having an accident here. Wait in my office, and I will send Pawel to see you."

"Thank you," Steve told him, putting every once of genuine feeling he possessed into it. "We're very grateful."

"Whew," said Sam, when the supervisor left. He stood up and paced the short length of the room. "Almost thought he was gonna send us away, for a moment there. Nice going, Cap. You want me to clear out? Give you some space?"

"No, it's okay. You should stay." Besides, Sam had earned the right to be here. If it weren't for him, Steve never would have found this lead. Sam had done the leg-work for a whole year, and his search had taken him all the way around the world; a search that he'd undertaken alone, most of the time, because the Avengers required the greater time commitment.

As the minutes ticked by, Steve felt his nerves increasing again, as they had in the taxi journey here, and none of his tricks would push them away this time. If this was Bucky, if it really was his friend… everything would start to get better. He was sure of it. Whatever help Bucky needed, he'd get it. Whatever Hydra had done to him, Steve would see that it was undone. Whatever it took in terms of time, and resources, Steve would pour everything at his disposal into getting his friend back. He could never make the past upto Bucky. He could never make up for letting him fall. But he could make darn sure his friend never got left behind again.

The office door opened, and Steve felt his heart skip several beats. He turned in his chair, letting his eyes drink in the sight of the man who entered the room and hovered warily by the door. Immediately, his heart sank into his stomach, and the churning stopped. It could've been Bucky… if Bucky was a 6'4'' blond with close-cropped hair and dark brown eyes. When the man opened his mouth, his English was clipped with a heavy Polish accent.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Pawel Nowacki?" Steve asked, forgetting Sam was even in the room. He had to be sure. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe the supervisor had sent the wrong man. "You're Pawel Nowacki?"

"Yes."

"The Pawel Nowacki who saved a colleague crushed by steel girders last week?"

"Yes, that is me. Mr Minkowski has already told me why you are here. I am not interested in your offer."

Steve could think of nothing else to say. This wasn't Bucky. That was the only thing that mattered.

"And we respect your decision," Sam picked up. His face showed some small measure of the crushing disappointment that Steve felt inside. "But before we go, would you mind telling us exactly how you managed to lift those girders?"

Pawel Nowacki shrugged. "I work out a lot. And when it happened, it was so fast. I just felt the adrenaline kick in. Why does everyone find this so strange?"

"It was just an amazing feat of strength. Normally it takes two or three guys to lift one girder, and you lifted three of them, alone."

"Yes. Is this all? Can I go back to work now?"

"Of course. Thank you for seeing us. Your friend was lucky you were in the right place at the right time."

Pawel Nowacki left without another word, and Steve watched him go. Managed expectations or not, there had been a moment, just a brief moment, when he'd truly expected to see Bucky walk into the construction office. For a split second, his spirit had soared, and the darkness of the past few years—Hydra, Washington, Sokovia, Pietro Maximoff, lives lost that he hadn't been able to save—had fallen away, replaced by one bright light. And now, that light was fading fast.

"I'm sorry, Cap," said Sam, his voice heavy with regret. "I really thought we were onto something this time."

"Don't be." He stood to face his friend. It wasn't Sam's fault. This really was the best lead they'd had in the year since Insight's destruction. Besides, that bright light… he'd forgotten it, until now. Thought that maybe it was gone forever. "You've given me something. Something that I thought I'd lost."

"What's that?"

"Hope."

For as long as Bucky was out there, there was hope that one day Steve would find him. Or that when he was ready, Bucky would find Steve. Seventy years ago, the world had been a big place. Now, the world got smaller day by day. Eventually, the world would be so small that there would be nowhere left to hide. On that day, the bright light that was his best friend would return, and it would never fade again.


	16. Matryoshka

Running To You

 _16\. Matryoshka_

Time, which had once been a terrible burden to the man who had been the Winter Soldier, passed almost too quickly. In the space of a year he had filled three _'Me'_ notebooks, along with half of _Steve_ and three quarters of _Hydra_. Each page of _The Dead_ was dedicated to a victim. It wasn't just names he put in there, but cut-outs from newspaper articles, pictures of the people he had killed, snippets of information relating to their lives, their accomplishments, details of their families and any still-living relatives. The book became a tribute to their memories, and as the months went by, those he found eventually stopped visiting him.

He made progress, too, on becoming a social human being again. Having a strict schedule helped. He had a timetable, and he stuck to it closely, savouring the stability of routine, of knowing what the next day would bring. There were his morning runs after work, followed by a shower and a sleep until midday. He would leave the apartment and buy lunch, eat it whilst walking. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays he went to the library to continue his research. Tuesdays and Thursdays he spent doing part-time work at the market, loading and offloading crates for the stall owners. It didn't pay much, but he got a better deal on his purchases, and it gave him the opportunity to get to know some of the locals a little better.

On Wednesdays and Fridays, before his night shift started, he continued French lessons with Irina and Ion, and they made great progress. During the middle of every month, he would spend one of his Wednesdays travelling by train, going to one of the other cities, seeing a little more of the country. On the last day of every month, he went out for a drink with some of the guys from his night-shift, simply enjoying listening to their banter, chipping in when prodded into it, slowly learning about their lives. And every Tuesday, on his first night off, he treated himself to an episode of the X-Files on television. In this way, the weeks and months passed, and before he knew it, it was Christmas Eve again.

Work had been busier than ever, and Bucky took all the overtime he could get. The day-shift workers weren't as relaxed and easy-going as the guys on night-shift—probably because the managers were there to keep a close watch on them—but they welcomed his presence when they realised he really did work hard and work fast, and at the end of the first week they offered to take him out for drinks because productivity was up twelve percent since he'd started picking up an occasional shift with them.

On Christmas Eve day, everyone in the warehouse was in a good mood. Most of the warehouse crew wore silly hats and sang along to Christmas songs on the radio. Bucky still didn't know whether he could sing, and rather fearing he couldn't, he kept his mouth shut. But nobody seemed to notice; they were all too busy celebrating the fact that work would finish at 4pm and there would be two days of work-free celebration.

"Hey, Jacques!" Bucky looked up, and saw the day-shift supervisor, Cezar, gesture him over to the cluster of men. He finished shouldering a box into the back of a truck and joined the group. "We just got the pay packages through; talk about leaving it to the last minute, huh?"

He glanced at the clock; it said 3.30pm. "Yeah, it's kinda late."

"Well, here is your wage for the past week. That is your regular night-shift wage, plus your overtime for the day-shift, plus your Christmas bonus."

"There's a Christmas bonus?"

"Of course!" Cezar chuckled, handing over an envelope stuffed with money. It was a pretty heavy envelope. Had he really worked that much? "We have a tradition on the day-shift, to go and make that envelope a little lighter down at a bar, when work finishes. You're welcome to join us."

"Thanks, but I have something important to do before it gets too late."

"Ahh. Last minute shopping?" Cezar grinned knowingly.

"Something like that."

They finished loading the last of the trucks and watched it roll out of the warehouse. Bucky had no idea what its destination was, but he was suddenly glad he wasn't a truck driver. It couldn't be nice, being on the road at Christmas. Although, probably quiet…

The rowdy day-shifters packed everything away, singing a more traditional Christmas song as Cezar locked up the warehouse. They called out goodbyes and wishes for a Merry Christmas to Bucky as they set off towards the bar, and he left for the train station. If he didn't know better, he would have thought they'd been drinking all day already. Still, it was good to see the Christmas spirit had not died completely. That there were still people in the world who remembered that the holiday was about family, and friends, and not just an excuse to buy expensive toys.

He hopped off the train near Lipscani and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from the biting cold. The crowd of shoppers had already begun to thin as the stores closed early for the day, and by the time his destination came into view, the streets were considerably quieter.

The Stavropoleos Monastery looked nothing like the church he had visited back in New York. It was a beautiful old building made of columns and archways, its walls patterned with colour and mosaic. It didn't have any judgemental saints looking down at him from stained glass windows, but it _did_ have several of them painted onto frescoes adorning the upper walls. Bucky did his best to ignore their accusatory stares as he approached the monk standing at the front door beside a collection plate. From inside the open door he heard some sort of chant-like singing, which was nothing like the carol choirs of old New York.

"Please, come in," the monk told him. "Our services will be continuing well into the night, for as long as there is a single adherent who wishes to pray."

"I can't." He didn't bother explaining that the saints were too judgemental, that he didn't like the way their eyes watched him. Instead, he nodded at the collection plate, which held a few coins and notes donated by worshippers. "What are you collecting for?"

"We are collecting to buy Christmas gifts for terminally ill children, bed-ridden in hospital. To try to bring a little happiness to them in their final days."

"A worthy cause." He took out his envelope and pulled a couple of the larger notes from it. These he pocketed, and placed the rest of the envelope on the plate.

The monk's eyes went wide. "B—but this is too much!"

"Yeah, well, I missed a few years." Besides, Mom always said it was good to share what you had with those who had less, and despite everything he had been through, there were still a lot of people in the world who had less than Bucky.

"But… it's Christmas!"

"Yes, it is."

He turned and walked away as the monk stammered out a thanks. Perhaps it was a good thing, to give money to a worthy cause, but it was a very small sacrifice to make. It was just money, and he had no need for that much of it. It would take more than money—much, _much_ more than money—for him to even start to make up for the terrible pain he had inflicted on the world. But… money was a first step. To him, that much of it was something unneeded. But to some poor kid who had to suffer their last ever Christmas in hospital? If that could bring a little light into someone's life, he would give away all the money he had, every year, until the light was brighter than the dark.

Back at the apartment he took the stairs two at a time, racing himself to his door. Hopefully it wasn't too late for one last act of goodwill before he had to seal himself away and wait for Christmas to be over. From one of the highest cupboards of his apartment—where young hands could not idly chance upon them—he took out a couple of wrapped gifts, then went back down several flights of stairs to Elena's door. He knocked, and waited.

Irina answered, a smile lighting up her face when she saw him standing there with the presents in his arms.

"Who is it, Irina?" her mother called.

"It's Jacques, mamă, and he has presents!"

"Send him into the kitchen, please."

"Here," Bucky said, thrusting the gifts into the girl's arms. "One of those is for your brother, too."

"Thank you Jacques!" she grinned, stepping back to allow him into the apartment. Ion immediately appeared beside her.

"A present for me?"

"Nothing to get excited over," Bucky assured him. That didn't seem to temper his eagerness. He really _was_ Charlie incarnate.

As the kids loitered over the gifts, Bucky made his way through the sparsely furnished living room, which had been decorated with colourful trimmings, and into the small kitchen. Elena was busy stirring two pans, and she tucked a long lock of dark hair behind her ear to keep it from falling into her face. Bucky hadn't bought her a gift, because he suspected she might try to stab him again if he made the attempt, but it was easier to get away with buying things for the kids. He hadn't really known what children these days were interested in, so he'd settled on a doll for Irina and a jigsaw puzzle for Ion. A 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle of New York's skyline. Hopefully it would keep him busy for a long time. A very long time. Hopefully he wouldn't do what Charlie had done once, and swallow one of the pieces, leaving the puzzle forever incomplete.

"Jacques," she said, when he appeared in the doorway, "you shouldn't spoil them."

"If kids can't be spoilt at Christmas, when can they be? Besides," he said, to try and mollify her, "they're not flashy gifts or anything."

Elena sighed. "Very well. Thank you. I appreciate you thinking of them." She stopped stirring one of the pans and turned to face him, resting one hand on her hip as her dark brown eyes studied him. "My children have asked me to invite you to have dinner with us tonight. I told them you probably have plans already, but they can be very insistent, so I said I would at least ask."

"Oh." He floundered for a moment, before clutching at her prompt. "Thank you. But you're right, I do have plans." He couldn't have a real Christmas. Not yet. It was too soon. Not enough time had passed. He still had a few more layers to get through. "I appreciate the offer, though."

She merely nodded. "I made extra dinner anyway. If you don't mind keeping an eye on Irina and Ion for a few minutes, I will put some in a dish for you to take away. I'm still afraid you might try to cook something and burn all our homes down."

"Don't worry, I've learnt from my mistake," he assured her. "And sure, I'll spend a few minutes with the kids before I go."

Back in the living room, he found the children sitting in front of the television, watching some show about puppets at Christmas. The presents he'd given them had joined a small pile beneath a forlorn-looking Christmas tree decorated with a string of multi-coloured fairy lights and several mismatched baubles. The sight of the sad tree made his heart wrench in his chest, because even in the middle of the Great Depression, his family had managed a better tree than this. Next year, he would buy them a tree. A big, green one. And he'd buy them an angel to go on top of it, something to replace the star that had long ago lost its sparkle.

"Jacques, are you staying for dinner?" Irina asked, when he took a seat on the couch. "We're having tochitură!"

"Sorry Irina, but I've already got plans."

She eyed him suspiciously. "What plans?"

"I'm spending Christmas with my family."

"You've got a family?" asked Ion, clambering wide-eyed onto the couch beside him. Bucky nodded, and suddenly Ion looked as suspicious as his sister. "How come we've never seen them?"

"Because they're here," he said, tapping his temple with his fingers.

"Your family are in your head?"

"My memories of them. They died a long time ago."

"Oh." Irina frowned. Then, in a very childlike way, she asked, "Don't you want a new family?"

"Maybe one day. When I'm ready. Until then, I need to spend Christmas remembering the family that I lost."

"How did you lose them?" Ion asked.

"Children, do not pester Jacques with questions," said Elena, appearing from the kitchen with a covered dish in her hands. "It is rude. Here, Jacques, I hope you enjoy this dish. It is from a recipe that has been handed down through my family for generations."

"It smells wonderful," he assured her with a smile. "And don't be too harsh with the kids, they were just being curious. There's no harm in that."

He let himself out the apartment, and two pairs of small feet pattered after him.

"Merry Christmas, Jacques!" Irina said as he started the climb back up the stairs.

"And thank you for the presents!" Ion added.

Elena appeared in the doorway to shepherd her offspring back into the apartment. She gave Bucky a small wave, which he returned, then disappeared behind the closed door. Now he was finally alone again. It was just the way his Christmas had to be.

o - o - o - o - o

 _"You drop your elbow, Barnes."_

 _"_ _What? I don't drop my elbow."_

 _"_ _Yeah, you do. On your right. By an inch, when you're guarding."_

 _Bucky stopped his bout with Gusty to aim a scowl at his friend. Wells was watching from his seat on the back of a parked-up, mud-plastered jeep, an open bag of sunflower seeds clutched in his hand._

 _"_ _Do you know how many championship titles I have under my belt?"_

 _"_ _Must be some other belt." Wells split a seed with his teeth and blew the shell out onto the ground. "One you left at home, maybe."_

 _"_ _I don't drop my damn elbow."_

 _Wells rolled his eyes._ _"Corporal Ferguson, please tell Sergeant Barnes that he drops his damn elbow."_

 _Both men looked at Gusty, whose eyes suddenly shifted hastily from side to side in the search for a way outta answering._ _"Err, I wouldn't really know what I'm looking for, Sarge."_

 _"_ _You're looking for a damn elbow that's dropping by an inch. You know what an elbow looks like, don't you Gusty? And you've quite possibly been given the scope of 'an inch' by some poor, disappointed girl, right?"_

 _Gusty cringed and turned back to Bucky._ _"Yeah, he's right Sarge, you drop your elbow by an inch."_

 _Bucky fought back the pang of irritation bubbling inside his chest. Very few people were willing to expend the effort required to stand up to Wells when he had his mind set on something._

 _"_ _Thank you, Corporal, you can go and do something else now," he told the man._

 _Gusty slunk away, seemingly glad to be out of the crossfire._

 _Wells grinned at him._ _"I thought you wanted to teach Corporal Ferguson how to fight?"_

 _"_ _Well_ apparently _I drop my damn elbow by an inch,_ _" Bucky growled. "How'm I supposed to teach a guy to fight if I drop my elbow?"_

 _"_ _Don't get pissy. Here, have a sunflower seed." Wells held out the bag, which Bucky ignored. Things had been tense in the 107th since Davies and Franklin had died, and Wells seemed to be the only one who hadn't taken it real hard._

 _"_ _You're unusually chipper," Bucky pointed out._

 _"_ _What's not to be chipper about?" Wells shrugged. "Sun's shining, we're in Italy, and we're not dead yet."_

 _"_ _You finally wrote your letter?" Bucky guessed. His friend had been agonising over the damn thing ever since they'd first talked about it, back in the mines. That had been a whole other country ago._

 _Wells spat out another shell and crunched the seed._ _"Yup."_

 _"_ _Still not gonna post it?"_

 _"_ _Nope." Wells shook the seed bag at him, and Bucky shook his head. "Like you said, better I deliver it in person. After the war. Deal with the fallout right there and then, instead of sitting around waiting for a response that might never come, and I might not like even if it does come. I figure I've been running like a scared kid ever since my first time in that cupboard. About time I finally grew a pair and faced something head-on. And who knows, maybe I won't even need the letter. Maybe I'll get the opportunity to say it all in person. In fact, that's my plan. The letter is a backup. Just in case."_

 _"_ _Huh." He couldn't help looking at Wells like he'd just sprouted another two heads. "What changed your mind?"_

 _"_ _You did. After our little heart-to-heart under the mountain, I felt much better. Like, I'd been holding all this darkness inside me for as long as I could remember, and all I really needed was to let some of it out. Kinda like confessional, I guess, only you're a damn sight more useful than a priest." He cracked another sunflower seed open and chewed with an introspective look in his eyes. "I figure, it's gotta be healthy, to clear the air. Get stuff off my chest. And really, what have I got to lose, right?"_

 _As Bucky watched his friend, it was like seeing a new man emerge from the shell of an old one. Gone were the dark rings beneath Wells_ _' eyes, product of guilt and too many sleepless nights. The twitchy sullenness he'd been prone to at times had evaporated like the morning mist. It must be great, to find such catharsis in talking._

 _"_ _If you've got nothing to lose, why not send your letter now? Why wait until after the war?"_

 _Wells shifted on his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time in days._ _"Because this is war, and the last thing I wanna do is go distracting anyone with my touchy-feely emotional baggage. Right now, the focus has gotta be on winning the war. Everything else can wait."_

 _"_ _Makes sense." Besides, the very fact that Wells had even listened to him at all was astounding. When he'd suggested the letter, he never thought his friend would actually go through with it. But maybe if he could get Wells to give way on one thing, he could get him to admit defeat on something else. "Now, put down those sunflower seeds and get in this imaginary ring. I'm gonna prove to you that I don't drop my damn elbow."_

 _His friend shook his head._ _"I'm not gonna fight you, Barnes."_

 _"_ _Afraid?" Bucky grinned._

 _"_ _Of you?" Wells scoffed. "Hardly. I just have amazing powers of precognition. I can tell you right now how it'll go. After a minute or two, I'll come at you with a left hook that you can't block 'cos you drop your right elbow, and you'll end up getting all pissy with me for being right."_

 _"_ ' _Cept it won't go like that, because you're not right."_

 _"_ _I'm always right. It's called "Wells' Law". And that law follows, 'Danny Wells is always right.' Besides, you're annoying when you sulk."_

He _was annoying?! The damn nerve of the guy!_

 _"_ _One," Bucky said, holding up his first finger of his right hand, "you're not always right." A second finger joined it. "Two, I do not drop my elbow." A third finger was raised. "Even if there was the slightest chance that you are right about this, I wouldn't get pissy with you over it. Scouts' honour."_

 _"_ _I don't believe for even a second that you were ever a scout. But…" Wells sighed and put his snack down. "If you insist. But first, you wanna change your belt to that one that's got all the titles under it?"_

 _"_ _Funny, Wells. Funny."_

 _They squared up in the imaginary ring, and Bucky was glad of the screened off area they had behind the 107th_ _'s tents, away from the main crowd of the army. Not that he was concerned about spectators, of course. There was nothing to be concerned about, because he definitely did not drop his damn elbow._

 _They traded a few blows, light jabs to begin with, to get a feel for each others_ _' style. Bucky had always been an out-fighter at heart, and he'd never done bare-knuckle fighting before joining up. Dad always insisted on gloves and mouth-guards as the bare minimum, but such equipment was not easily come by in the army. Especially not on deployment. At first he went easy with his punches, because the last thing he wanted was to knock his friend out before he had chance to prove him wrong._

 _Wells was light on his feet and pretty nimble; he matched Bucky for height, if not weight, and seemed at ease with his own defensive, counter puncher style. After Bucky decided his friend could take a little more pressure, Wells upped the ante by dodging faster, by making Bucky stretch a little further, work a little harder to try and land a punch._

 _"_ _They really made you wear gloves in every fight?" Wells taunted, as Bucky followed his back-stepping around the imaginary ring._

 _"_ _What, and you didn't?"_

 _"_ _Bare-knuckle boxing is a fine underground tradition in the Irish community."_

 _"_ _You're not Irish."_

 _Wells shrugged and danced back again._ _"Third generation. Close enough. And I'm more Irish than you are a boy scout, anyway."_

 _When Bucky realised his friend was trying to wear him down with missed-punches and feints, he stepped closer and switched to an in-fighter style. It wasn_ _'t his preferred style, but he needed to close the gap and get through Wells' defences before he was too tired to keep throwing punches. He landed a swift left-jab right-cross combo, then pulled down his left arm for a quick upper-cut… and went reeling as something came out of nowhere, catching him hard on his right cheek and showering his vision with a tumble of falling stars._

 _Dazed, he stood upright and shook his head. Only when his vision began to clear of bright flashes did he realise that_ _'something' had been a swift left-jab outta nowhere from Wells… and with more force than a counter puncher ought rightfully to have used for a jab. It felt more like taking a blow from a brawler._

 _"_ _Y'know," Wells drawled, examining his own purple knuckles, "if you didn't drop your right elbow, you probably would have blocked that."_

 _Bucky shook his head again, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Wells had faked him out! Pretended he was a defensive fighter, all the while waiting to switch styles to a slugger. And now Bucky_ _'s cheek hurt like hell._

 _"_ _Let's hear it," gloated Wells, looking smug._

 _"_ _You cheated," Bucky scowled. "You said you were gonna come in with a left hook that I wouldn't block."_

 _"_ _I gave left hook as an_ example _of something you wouldn_ _'t be able to block with your elbow an inch out. And you know as well as I do that there's no such thing as 'cheating' in a fight. There is winning, and losing."_

 _"_ _And cheating."_

 _"_ _Sure, be pissy about it. Thus Wells' Law is proven correct once again."_

 _Bucky bit back his scathing reply and tried not to grumble under his breath. It wasn_ _'t that difficult; the stars had returned, momentarily distracting him._

 _"_ _Didja have to hit so hard?"_

 _"_ _No, I guess not. Sorry. I just wanted to make my point." Wells did sound genuinely sorry, and there was a measure of sympathy in his blue eyes, so Bucky let it slide. "How's your face?"_

 _"_ _You tell me. You're the one who punched it." It throbbed like hell below his eye. "I hope my face didn't break any of your knuckles; that would be just terrible."_

 _"_ _My knuckles will live," Wells chuckled. "Let's check out the damage."_

 _Bucky held still, wincing in pain when Wells_ _' fingertips gently probed his cheekbone, his touch cool against the burning sting of his skin. "Well? What's the verdict, doc?"_

 _"_ _That your face will live, too." He picked up the bag of seeds and offered a peace token. Bucky merely shook his head. This was the last time he'd be bare-knuckle fighting with Danny Wells._

 _"_ _Hey, Sergeant Wells." One of the privates from the 9th Infantry appeared from between the tents. He stared at Bucky's bruised face for a moment, then looked to Wells and his nonchalant sunflower seed cracking, and shook his head. Most privates learnt early on not to ask too many questions. "Colonel wants to see you."_

 _"_ _Thanks, Private, I'm on my way." The man disappeared, and Wells stepped forward to hook an arm around Bucky's shoulders. "C'mon champ, let's drop you off at the hospital on my way to whatever new chewing-out I'm about to get. I don't like the way you keep blinking and shaking your head."_

 _"_ _I'm fine," Bucky protested. "Just countin' stars." Besides, it wasn't possible to go to the hospital tent without being forced to give a pint of blood._

 _"_ _There's only one star that counts, pal."_

 _"_ _Rita Hayworth?"_

 _Wells gave him a happy grin._ _"See? This is why we get along so well. Now, if anyone asks, we weren't fighting." Bare-knuckle boxing wasn't exactly encouraged by the brass. "Just say you tripped and landed face-down on my fist."_

 _"_ _Yeah, real believable."_

 _At the hospital tent, Wells left him to go get chewed-out by the colonel, and Bucky was admitted by a robust nurse with cold hands and a rough bedside manner. She practically hoisted him onto one of the hard examination tables, and her vice-like grip on his head was definitely on the firmer side of professional. She flashed a light into his eyes, and used her fingers to probe his cheekbone with much less care for causing him pain than his friend had shown. Then she stuck a thermometer in his mouth, because sure, maybe his mouth was broken, too._

 _"_ _What happened?" she asked, pen poised above an official accident report form._

 _"_ _I tripped," he said, around the tiny tube of glass poking out of his mouth._

 _"_ _And fell on a fist?"_

 _"_ _Something like that that."_

 _"_ _Amazing, how much that happens in this camp." She sighed and scribbled down 'tripped' on the form, then manhandled him back into a reclining position._

 _"_ _Do we really need to do this?" he asked, eyeing up the large needle, thin tubing and elastic strap she pulled out from a drawer._

 _She took the thermometer from his mouth and checked it._ _"You're healthy, you have blood, and we could always use more."_

 _"_ _What about my cheek?"_

 _"_ _It's fine, nothing broken. I'll give you a cold compress for it, to help take the swelling down."_

 _Half an hour later, Bucky was back in his barracks tent, lying on his uncomfortable camp bed. His left hand held a wad of gauze to his right arm, which in turn held a compress against his cheek. Missing a pint of blood, and suffering at least a third of a concussion, he dozed for a while, feeling his mind slip in and out of a sleep which seemed determined to elude him. And just when he finally felt himself sink down, into the blissful murky depths of unconsciousness, a voice whispered quietly, right beside his ear,_ _"You were right, the colonel hates me."_

 _Bucky opened his eyes to find Wells hovering by his bed._

 _"_ _Can I borrow a pair of your socks?"_

 _He pushed himself up, checked his arm, touched his cheek, winced, and then finally clocked his friend_ _'s request._

 _"_ _What's wrong with your socks?" he asked._

 _Wells worked as he spoke, switching his off-duty shirt for a combat one, pulling his jacket over the top and buttoning it up to the collar. His sidearm was slid into its holster, along with his knife into its sheath._

 _"_ _I'm only wearing one pair, and I need two. But my only spare is full of holes. I've requisitioned some more, but they won't come in time."_

 _"_ _In time for what?"_

 _With a trademark grin on his face, Wells tapped his nose._ _"Top secret mission, pal. Very hush-hush."_

 _"_ _Tell me."_

 _"_ _Seems those fly-boys over-shot their drop point._ Again _. Colonel wants me to take a squad from the 107th, and go with Sergeant Haven and some of his boys from the 9th to pick up our gear before the Krauts can help themselves to it._ _"_

 _"_ _Those pilots are overpaid," Bucky offered in condolence._

 _"_ _Yeah. Anyway, six-hour march there, and carrying a bunch of supplies makes it at least eight back. So whaddya say, can I borrow a pair of socks?"_

 _"_ _What if you don't come back? I might never see those socks again."_

 _"_ _Then you can have the socks I've requisitioned from the quartermaster, and Gusty will be one step closer to that promotion to Sergeant he's been coveting since we left NYPOE."_

 _"_ _Sounds fair. There's a pair of clean socks in my trunk. But I want you to wash 'em before bringing them back to me. I don't want anything that's been on your feet for twelve hours or more."_

 _"_ _Alright. How's your face?" Wells asked, as he hunted in Bucky's footlocker for the cleanest pair of socks he could find._

 _"_ _Not broken, apparently." Though it still stung like holy hell._

 _"_ _Good to hear." Once Bucky's friend was done lacing up his boots, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out, handing it over. It turned out to be the packet of sunflower seeds. "Here, knock yourself out while I'm gone. Just don't_ literally _knock yourself out. You look pretty drained, I don_ _'t think you can afford to give another pint of blood today."_

 _"_ _Ha ha, very funny," he scowled. Wells merely chuckled, and made his way to the tent flap. "Hey, Wells." Bucky waited until his friend turned back. "Be careful out there. I'd really miss those socks."_

 _Wells gave him a grin and a sloppy salute._ _"See you tonight, Sergeant Barnes."_

 _The world blurred. The tent and Wells and the trees outside swirled around and around, and Bucky felt himself fall through the air, landing heavily on a rain-spattered concrete street. Shapes stretched out around him like impossibly long fingers, which coalesced into blocky silhouettes of buildings._

 _His feet carried him along the pavement, along a route so familiar that he didn_ _'t even need to consciously think about reaching his destination. On his feet were shiny new shoes, and he hunched his shoulders inside his thick jacket to keep out the worst of the winter chill._

 _A commotion in an alley caught his attention, the sound of somebody being hit, a pained, somewhat visceral grunt. A single thought sprang up in his mind:_ _'Aw, not again!'_

 _It was a familiar scene. He_ _'d seen it at least once or twice a year, over the past ten years. For some reason, Steve could find a fight even better than Charlie could find a pile of dirt. It wasn't Steve's fault, not really. He just didn't have any fear. He didn't care about pain. When he saw something he didn't like, he spoke out. So many guys seemed to take exception to Steve speaking out, like his rebukes were a personal affront to them. They couldn't match him with words, because Steve was a hell of a lot smarter than them, but with fists? Yeah, they'd take a shot or two and think little of it._

 _"_ _You really gonna keep shooting that smart mouth off?" the guy in the alley demanded of Steve. Bucky winced in sympathy when he got close enough to see his friend's face; it was bruised on the left side, and his lip was bust._

 _One thing you could say about Steve was he never quit. He forced himself up into the best defensive stance he could muster, panting heavily._ _"I could do this all day."_

 _Bucky decided it was time to intervene. His friend really_ could _do it all day; most professional boxers Bucky had seen couldn_ _'t take punches like Steve. He guessed that after a while, a guy could get used to that sort of punishment, shrug it off like it was rain. But Bucky had other plans for this day, plans which did not involve Steve getting his face pounded into the asphalt._

 _"_ _Hey, don't you have anything better to do?" Bucky demanded of the guy currently wailing on his best friend._

 _The guy turned with a scowl on his face, then sneered down at Steve._ _"What's this, your mommy come to take you home, kid?"_

 _Bucky silently groaned._ Shouldn't'a said that. Not now. Not this year.

 _Steve let out an angry growl and launched himself forward, right into a waiting fist. Before the guy could kick him while he was down, Bucky grabbed the back and collar of the guy_ _'s jacket and pulled him backwards, releasing him as he turned, sending him towards the mouth of the alley._

 _"_ _Get lost," Bucky warned, his fists held loosely by his sides._

 _"_ _Pah! I ain't got time for this."_

 _The guy turned and left without a backwards glance, leaving Bucky thoroughly confused. He didn_ _'t seem like the normal type of bully Steve attracted, the type who enjoyed lording it over someone smaller, making him feel like a big man for hitting an easy target._

 _Bucky leant down and hauled his best friend to his feet. Steve dabbed the back of his hand against his bust lip and winced._

 _"_ _Seriously, Steve, it's Christmas Day. What'd you do, walk around town looking for a fight?"_

 _"_ _The guy was a jerk, he shoved a little kid right into a wall," Steve objected._

 _"_ _So you decided to shove your face into his fist? Yeah, that showed him."_

 _For the first time, Steve really seemed to realise that his friend was there. He looked at Bucky, taking in his shoes and jacket._

 _"_ _What're you doing here? It's Christmas Day."_

 _"_ ' _Zacly," Bucky drawled, throwing an arm around his best friend's shoulders. "You didn't think I was gonna let my best friend be alone all Christmas Day, did you?"_

 _"_ _Buck—"_

 _"_ _No objections," he warned. "Mom's made enough Christmas dinner to feed twenty, so we've more than enough for you."_

 _"_ _I don't wanna intrude. Christmas is the time to be with your family."_

 _Bucky shook his head. Steve could be a real dolt at times._ _"I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that. Now c'mon, there's two big glasses of eggnog waiting for us at home."_

 _Once he_ _'d wrestled Steve out of the alley and away from his apartment block, his friend finally gave up trying to fight. The streets of Brooklyn were hauntingly empty, but that was probably more to do with the weather than the day. A good Christmas had a sprinkling of snow, clear night skies and carollers wandering from house to house. This wasn't a good Christmas. It was a grey Christmas. There was no snow, only rain, and a biting wind that tried its best to sneak down Bucky's jacket and nip his skin with its icy teeth. Suddenly, that eggnog sounded pretty damn good._

 _The lights on Bucky_ _'s street twinkled warmly despite the cold of the late afternoon. The pair walked in silence; he could tell Steve wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and couldn't exactly blame his friend for being a little morose. This was his first Christmas without his mom. The first year he was truly alone for the holidays._

 _Alone except for his amazing best friend, of course! There was no way Bucky was gonna let his pal spend the holiday on his own. Not for as long as he drew breath, anyway._

 _Warm light spilled out from the windows of the Barnes_ _' house, flooding the porch with an amber warmth. Bucky prodded his friend up the steps and in through the front door. A small bundle of fur immediately assaulted Steve's legs._

 _Bucky grinned as Steve jumped back, surprised._ _"What the—"_

 _"_ _Come back, Bonnie, come back!" Janet shouted._

 _Bucky stooped to pick up the small bundle, which immediately started licking his hands and began wriggling in an attempt to reach his face._ _"This is Bonnie," he explained, thrusting the tiny spaniel puppy into Steve's arms. "Mom and Dad got her for Janet."_

 _At that moment, nine year old Janet ran out from the living room and slid to a stop before she could crash into her brother and his friend. The panic in her eyes faded when she saw the puppy in Steve_ _'s arms._

 _"_ _Oh, there you are, you naughty dog!" she scolded to Bonnie, one finger wagging at the dog. The puppy merely licked her finger. "Thanks for catching her, Steve."_

 _"_ _I didn—"_

 _"_ _Hi Steve," said Mary-Ann, appearing in the doorway with a smile that promptly slipped as her eyes fell on Steve and widened in shock. "Ohmygosh, what happened to your face?"_

 _"_ _He slipped," Bucky lied for his friend. "Fix him up, won't you?"_

 _"_ _I don't need—" Steve objected._

 _But there was no objecting with Mary-Ann. She managed to bully him into the living room and onto the couch, making it sound like she she wasn_ _'t bullying him at all. The puppy was extricated from his arms, then a bowl of warm water and a bottle of iodine produced from the kitchen._

 _"_ _Sit still," Mary-Ann warned, when Steve began to fidget. And he had to obey, because Mary-Ann was almost as tall as him, and far more determined than Bucky's friend._

 _Bucky left Steve to his sister_ _'s tender ministrations and went to the kitchen to check on the eggnog situation. Mom was just ladling it out into glasses, Dad helping her with the heavy pan. Mom looked up as he stepped through the door, a long-suffering look in her eyes. "I take it from Annie's flapping about that iodine bottle, that you found Steve?"_

 _"_ _Yeah, he's okay though."_

 _"_ _Glad to hear it. Here, take a glass for you and Steve, and send Annie back when she's done."_

 _He happily grabbed two glasses and retreated back to the living room. There was always a very real threat, on Christmas Day, that anyone who stepped into the kitchen was considered to have volunteered to help Mom with the cooking, and the last thing Bucky wanted was to be stuck in the kitchen while his best friend squirmed uncomfortably around Mary-Ann. There was too much entertainment in that._

 _The sight in the living room brought a grin to his face. Steve was wincing under Mary-Ann_ _'s medical care, a pained expression tugging at his face every time she dabbed his cuts with the sharply astringent iodine. At the same time, Janet was sitting beside him on the couch, letting Bonnie give his fingers the puppy-lick treatment. Steve looked like he didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry, to sit still lest Mary-Ann shout at him, or pull away so the dog couldn't get his fingers any wetter._

 _A moment later, Charlie bounded down the stairs brandishing a new baseball bat._

 _"_ _Steve, look what I go— whoa, what happened to your face?"_

 _"_ _Nothing Annie can't fix," Bucky grinned._

 _Dad appeared from the kitchen, carrying a glass of nog and a bottle of brandy._ _"I hope you got a few jabs in at least, Steve."_

 _"_ _I might have," Steve winced painfully. "I can't remember. It's kind of a blur."_

 _"_ _Hmph. Leave him alone Annie, if you put any more iodine on him you're going to make his whole face orange. Go get some nog from your mom. You too, kids."_

 _Mary-Ann huffed, but finally left Steve to nurse his injuries himself. Janet slid Bonnie onto Steve_ _'s knee, then joined her older sister in the kitchen, with Charlie racing after her._

 _"_ _Here y'go, pal," said Bucky, handing over a glass of nog._

 _"_ _Just a minute, Bucky," said Dad, unscrewing the cap off the brandy. "Here, this'll take the edge off the pain better than iodine." He poured a healthy measure of brandy into his own, Steve's and Bucky's glasses. Charlie reappeared with his glass and held it out hopefully with the others. Dad just gave an amused snort. "Keep dreaming, son."_

 _"_ _But I'm nearly twelve!" Charlie complained, sticking out his bottom lip—a habit he'd never grown out of._

 _"_ _Exactly. This brandy's strong enough to put hairs on your chest, and I'm not having anyone ask me why my twelve year old son's got hairs on his chest."_

 _"_ _Awwww!"_

 _"_ _To your health, boys," said Dad, clinking his glass against the other two. Charlie got a quick clink in before anyone could object, and Bucky sipped his nog to hide his grin. It tasted nice, with the brandy. Smoother. Much nicer than the horrible beers he and Steve had got Bucky's older cousin Tommy to buy for them when they were fifteen and too young to buy their own beers._

 _Christmas was never quiet in the Barnes_ _' household, and this year was no exception. Dad put a record on the gramophone, letting jaunty music spill out through the house. Every year, around December 1st, invisible radio-waves flooded the air with Christmas songs. 'Jingle Bells' was played on the hour, every hour. 'Button Up Your Overcoat' was belted out at 8.30 in the morning and 4.30 in the evening. 'Auld Lang Syne' was particularly popular at weekends, and every radio fell silent at midnight following a slow rendition of 'Silent Night'._

 _Every year, around December 2nd, Dad got fed up of Christmas songs and banned them for the rest of the holidays. Christmas songs belonged in a church, he said, or a carol choir. Not in the air, and not in his house. In defiant objection of the status quo, Christmas was instead ushered in to sound of Dixieland jazz, to the jaunty rhythm of the tuba and the trombone, the banjo and the horn. Bucky supposed it wasn_ _'t exactly traditional, but as far as his family was concerned, it made perfect sense._

 _Dinner was noisy. It was always noisy, and had been for as long as Bucky could remember. This year was even noisier than usual, because Janet and Charlie had been warned in advance not to talk to Steve about his mom in case it upset him, so they made up for it by chattering out everything else that crossed their minds, whilst every other sentence out of Mary-Ann_ _'s mouth was to ask Steve whether he wanted more potatoes, or gravy, or carrots, until Dad grumbled at her to stop mothering him, which made Steve look harangued and made Bucky's grin grow even wider. Added to that was an energetic, excitable puppy that bounced around the chairs, trying to climb onto somebody's knee—_ anybody's _knee_ _—begging for attention. And over it all, Dixieland blared out its defiance._

 _After dinner, and pudding, and another glass of eggnog, Bucky sat half-slumped in his chair. He couldn_ _'t move. If he moved, he might explode. All that delicious food that had gone in would come out, and it wouldn't be pretty._

 _"_ _Can I help with the dishes, Mrs Barnes?" Steve asked._

 _Bucky wanted to kick his friend under the table, but that would require moving, and he really couldn_ _'t be bothered. Steve was just being polite—he was always polite, even when he was getting into fights—but Bucky couldn't let his friend be polite without also being polite too, and he was much too stuffed to be polite right now. Luckily, Mom had a very Mary-Ann like stubbornness about her when it came to what guests were allowed to do; especially when those guests were Steve._

 _"_ _You most certainly can not," she said, managing to sound offended by the very idea. "But if you could find a moment to transfer my bloated pig of a son into the living room, I'll get this table cleared."_

 _Steve looked to Bucky, and then to Charlie, who_ _'d also managed an impressive post-meal slump._

 _"_ _Which one?"_

 _"_ _Hey!" Bucky objected, a faux-scowl aimed at his friend. "I'm perfectly capable of moving under my own impulsion. In about five minutes. When all that apple pie's finished going down." Mom didn't believe in Christmas pudding like Dad didn't believe in Christmas songs. It was always hot apple pie teamed with icecream, and it still hadn't hit his stomach yet. Maybe that second eggnog hadn't been such a good idea._

 _Finally, Bucky managed to get himself out of his chair, and ushered everyone who was younger than him into the living room. As soon as he got there he collapsed on the couch and wondered if he_ _'d ever feel hungry again. Probably not. It might take days for the apple pie to reach his stomach._

 _Janet, Charlie and Mary-Ann settled onto the floor, where they could play at rolling a small ball for Bonnie. The puppy ran back and forth, panting excitedly, chasing the ball, and the hands which rolled it, and even its own tail. Puppies, Bucky decided, were like little kids, only with less puking._

 _Steve joined him on the couch, watching in silence while the ball was rolled and the puppy played. Silence, like food, was something that didn_ _'t last long in the Barnes' house. Mary-Ann soon had Steve talking about art, which led to Charlie asking him to draw pictures of the most random of things ('an elephant inside a boa constrictor'? Where had he got_ that _from?). A card game followed, several rounds of go-fish. Mom and Dad danced to one of the slower jazz songs. Charlie crawled onto the couch and flopped down across both Bucky and Steve_ _'s legs, and was snoring within minutes. Janet was already curled up fast asleep in the armchair, cradling the exhausted puppy in her arms. As midnight approached, Dad carried Janet up to bed, and Mom woke Charlie to chivvy him upstairs. Mary-Ann had been stifling yawns for an hour, and she finally gave in to her tiredness, bidding everyone goodnight and trudging up the stairs to the room she shared with Janet. And Bucky still thought he might explode if he moved._

 _"_ _It's getting late," Steve said, glancing at the clock. "I really should get going."_

 _"_ _Nonsense, Steve," said Mom, as she finally switched off the gramophone. "It's cold out there, and dark. I'll not have you walking out at this hour, catching your death. You can stay here tonight, you know you're always welcome."_

 _"_ _Okay, thanks," Steve nodded. He was a smart guy. He knew there was no arguing with Bucky's mom. Besides, even though Bucky and Steve were old enough to buy their own beers now, Mom still saw two boys who needed mothering every once in a while._

 _When Mom had disappeared into the kitchen to finish cleaning up, Steve turned to Bucky on the couch._

 _"_ _Y'want me to drag you up the stairs?"_

 _"_ _Ugh," Bucky grumbled, and his stomach grumbled with him. "Don't even joke about that. I think I ate too much."_

 _"_ _It was probably that second helping of apple pie," Steve nodded._

 _"_ _I can't help it. Mom's apple pie is too good to pass up. Thank God there was none left. I think if I'd had a third helping, I'd be violently ill right now." He took a deep breath and braced himself for the inevitable prospect of movement. "S'pose we better turn in, though. I don't know about you, but I'm tired enough to fall asleep right here and now."_

 _They each grabbed a couple of couch cushions and hauled them up the stairs. Charlie was snoring quietly in the boys_ _' room; now that he was asleep, nothing would wake him. Bucky dumped his cushions on the floor and grabbed a spare blanket from the laundry cupboard, which he tossed at Steve. It landed on his friend's head, covering him from head to toe like a spooky bed-sheet ghost. Then, while Steve was trying to de-sheet himself, he grabbed his own blanket from his bed, wrapped it around himself, and sank down onto springy couch cushions. It was like lying on a fluffy marshmallow; much more comfortable than his ancient, creaky bed. He opted to lie on his back, because he didn't think his stomach could stomach being lain on._

 _"_ _Y'know," Steve said, sinking down beside him on couch cushions of his own, "you don't have to sleep on the floor as well."_

 _"_ _If you knew how uncomfortable my bed was, you wouldn't be saying that. Besides, why should you get all the fun?"_

 _Steve had no response to that. Bucky closed his eyes, and was just drifting off to sleep when his friend spoke again._

 _"_ _Hey, Buck?"_

 _"_ _Hmm?"_

 _"_ _Thanks. For making me come over. It was nice, to not be alone at Christmas."_

 _Bucky glanced to his friend. Steve was on his back too, his eyes roving over the ceiling, but Bucky suspected his friend_ _'s gaze wasn't up there because he admired the paint job Dad had done on the plaster._

 _"_ _No need to thank me, pal," Bucky assured him. "You know you'll always be a part of the family."_

o - o - o - o - o

He woke up at floor-level and for one brief, heart-stopping minute, thought he was at home in his parents' house. Then reality sank in. This wasn't his parents' house. It wasn't 1936, and he wasn't curled up on the couch cushions with his blanket wrapped around him and a belly still too full of Mom's cooking. This was Bucharest. It was 2015, and he was sprawled on the lumpy old mattress which served as his bed.

With a sigh of regret, he rolled over onto his back and looked up at the suspiciously stained ceiling. It had been several months since his last memory about the war, and he'd kinda hoped his mind had stopped tormenting him with reminders of those times. He should have known better.

Reaching down to the underside of his mattress, he grabbed a crowbar stashed there and made his way over to the floorboards. It wasn't hard to pry the boards up; they were old, and creaky, just like the rest of the apartment. They came up easily, allowing him to pull out his backpack. This he took back to the bed, and rooted inside it until he found the notebooks he needed. He opened the first one, the one named _Friends_ , and balanced it on his knee. In it, he dutifully wrote down everything about the first part of his dream, including how Wells had definitely cheated in the fight, and how Bucky did definitely not drop his elbow..

The next part of his dream was more difficult to place. _Steve_ , or _Family_? In the end, he went with _Family_ , because in his dream, Steve and Family had been the same thing, the boundary too blurred to differentiate them. When he'd finished, he picked out his latest _Me_ notebook, and recorded some pertinent thoughts. It was early for pertinent thoughts, only 7 o'clock in the morning, but his dreams had given him much to think about.

 _So many of my memories involve violence,_ he wrote. _I talked Wells into sparring with me to try and prove a point. He could fight, but I don_ _'t think fighting was ever important to him. I don't know why he signed up—either he never told me, or I don't have that memory yet—but I get the feeling it was never for the love of fighting. Maybe he was just running, like he said. A way to get away from home. In many ways, he reminds me of Steve, but where Steve had a sad sort of bittersweet family life, Wells had a terrible, traumatic one. Steve made up for his loneliness and insecurity by trying to take on the world, one bully at a time. Wells made up for his by hiding behind a dark sense of humour, because there was only one bully he ever feared._

 _In one of my earlier memories in my Steve book, I wrote down something he said to me. Something along the lines of never giving up, never running away from a fight. Each time I remember Steve, my own memories reaffirm themselves. No matter how beat up he got, Steve would never, ever back down. He never walked away from a fight. Not when he was a kid, and not when he became Captain America._

 _But_ _… he did. Back in Washington, when it was just me and him, he did what he said he would never do. He backed down. He stopped fighting. He could have killed me. I could have killed him. Damn near did. He was willing to not just risk his life, but to sacrifice everything he had ever stood for and believed in. For me. On the off chance that I might remember him. At that time, when I was more the Winter Soldier than myself, I didn't understand. I was too confused. I thought he was trying to fool me. It's only now, as I start to remember my friend more clearly, that I truly understand the sacrifice he made._

 _That was why he lifted the fallen support beam off me, when I was trapped. That was why he tried to tell me who I was. That was why he threw down his shield and refused to fight me. Because, unlike me, he remembered it all. He remembered the day we met in the playground. He remembered gettin_ _' detention and scraping gum. He remembered playing ball in the park, walking Bingo, and he was there with me when Mom brought Janet home from the hospital two days after she was born. He remembered Bingo, and all those girls I chased, and teaching Charlie how to bat. He remembered every Christmas we had together. He remembered what I told him that night, when we were nineteen and stuffed with Mom's Christmas dinner. He remembered that he was a part of my family._

 _I forgot. It_ _'s taken me this long to get that memory back. And one day, maybe, we can be a family again. Maybe one day I can stand in front of him and not feel horrified and ashamed of everything I did to him, and his friends, and all the people I hurt and killed since Hydra got their hands on me. One day, I'll be able to stand in front of him and tell him how sorry I am for being weak and forgetting everything that was ever important. One day._

He put down his pen and stared at the words he'd written. Sometimes his days felt like one step forward and two steps back. Other times, it was more like going in ever-expanding circles. But he was getting there. Slowly—painfully slowly, it seemed at times—he was making progress. It wasn't always steady; it often lurched along like a sputtering old motor engine, coughing and spewing smoke as it went… but it was progress nonetheless.

Returning his books to his bag, he pulled out the blonde-haired doll he'd kept hidden all year. The plain-painted girl who looked like a farmer's daughter. She smiled at him, her expression open and chaste.

"Merry Christmas," he said, wrapping both hands around the centre of the doll and turning until she opened.

The doll inside her was smaller out of necessity, and quite different to look at. Her hair was black and shiny, her eyes darkly exotic with a knowing look in them, and a playful, coquettish smile had been painted on her lips. Her plain grey dress only served to enhance the mystique of her face.

"You look like you've got a lot of secrets," he told her. "And I'm not sure I approve of your smile. You know things I don't, and I don't think I like that. But I guess you're what I've got 'til next Christmas, huh?" Yeah… he definitely didn't approve of her smile. It wasn't fair, that people should keep secrets from him. "I'm gonna put you away now. Sorry that you have to spend a year in a bag, but I can't leave you out or Irina and Ion might break you."

After he'd put the doll away, and returned his bag to its safe place beneath his floorboards, he returned to the lumpy mattress and pulled his blanket back around himself, settling down onto his right side. His thoughts immediately slid back to Steve.

Where was his friend now? Did Steve still try to spend Christmas alone? Did he have someone special to spend it with? Did those Avenger friends of his try to cajole him into celebrating with them, as Bucky once had?

Not knowing where his friend was, or what he was doing, or even whether he had someone to spend the holidays with, brought him an aching pang of regret. It was fine for Bucky to be alone, because he had a family in his head, and notebooks full of memories, and a mischievous-looking doll, all of which were adequate company following decades of Siberian isolation. But Steve had lost his mom at eighteen, and never had a family of his own after that. The thought of Steve being alone… no. That twisted something inside him. Something that made him want to jump-start his memories and shift his research into his victims up a gear. Suddenly, he was struck by the urgent need to get his life back. Then he could make sure his friend was okay, and make sure Steve still remembered the meaning of Christmas.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: If I was writing this story as a trilogy, then this would be the end of 'book two.' Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed so far, and I hope you're all enjoying the story. Please forgive any tautology in the third and final 'book' — no doubt fans of CW will see scenes which have already been portrayed in the movie, but there are some things I want to get Bucky's thoughts on, so please excuse me rehashing events from the movies. Also, because I'm assuming anyone reading by this point has already seen CW, I won't be rehashing_ _ **everything**_ _, only the pertinent bits. Apologies if that make it difficult for the casual reader to follow._


	17. Ratified

Running To You

 _17\. Ratified_

Spring was Bucky's favourite season because it meant the end of winter. Summer was hot and often uncomfortable; autumn, the mourning of summer's inexorable march towards the cold. But in spring, everything felt new, and fresh, and full of promise. He slept a little easier and a little deeper, even in his dark little room at the top of the noisy, dilapidated apartment complex.

He'd been more than a year in Bucharest now, and had finally come to view the city as a sort of home away from home. Work was steady and plentiful, and his research into his past was proceeding well. Irina and Ion were almost as fluent at French as he, and he hadn't robbed a single ATM machine since accepting the job at the warehouse. If things were not looking up, then at least they were not looking down. In fact, the world itself seemed to breathe a little easier. Things were finally beginning to settle.

Then, Steve got into another fight.

Bucky couldn't help but be concerned for his old friend as footage of Captain America's most recent exploits were aired on news channels across the globe, laid out for the entire world to see. When Steve had been just Steve, his fights had been small, back-alley affairs that rarely got noticed by anyone other than Bucky. Captain America, though… when the man who was a nation's pride got into a fight, people watched. And they judged. Nobody had ever batted an eye when Steve Rogers got into a fight, but now that it was Captain America getting pulled into the fray, everyone and his mother had their own opinion about it, and they were all opinions Bucky was fed up of hearing. None of the people mouthing off knew a single real, tangible thing about the man behind the mask. All they knew were museum-facts and internet rumours, most of them sensationalist gossip.

But what could Bucky do? He was just one man, and although the past few months had been pretty good to him, he wasn't deluded enough to believe himself whole, and fixed. He was still broken in many ways, his memories still fractured and scattered like a crazy kaleidoscopic jigsaw puzzle that stubbornly refused to be put back together. The only thing Bucky could offer his friend, if he even knew where to find Steve's top-secret Avengers headquarters, was a shoulder to cry on. And Steve wasn't the crying type. Stiff upper lip and all that. He was practically British.

So, Bucky soldiered on. He tried not to listen to the rumours and the opinions. He tried not to tell the people around him to _shut the hell up and stop being so damn judgemental_. They seemed to think Steve didn't care for the destruction and the lives lost, but if Bucky knew one thing about his friend, it was that Steve would be beating himself up right now over not being able to save every single person who needed his help. Beating himself up quietly, and in a very stoic way, but using no less force in his own private self-flagellation.

 _That_ _'s the problem with becoming a symbol, Steve. Eventually, people stop seeing_ you _, and see only the shield. Human beings are allowed to make mistakes, but symbols are supposed to be perfect, without flaw or blemish. From what I remember of you so far, you_ _'re one hell of a guy… but you're not perfect. Nobody is. They're holding you to an unattainable standard. Putting you on a pedestal so they can point and judge when you fall off. Setting you up to fail before you've even tried. And that's not fair._

Thoughts of Steve weighed heavily on his mind, in the days and weeks following the footage from Lagos. If there was one consolation to be found, it was that at least Steve wasn't alone in this. He had friends to support him. Strange friends, to be sure, but friends nonetheless. Steve was in good hands, and Bucky tried to get on with putting his train-wreck of a life back on the rails.

Then, he discovered he'd killed twelve people in a bombing.

It had been an ordinary day. He got home from work at 7 o'clock in the morning, then went out for his daily run. Came back, had a tepid shower, collapsed into bed for four hours and woke hungry enough to eat. He'd planned to head on over to the library for a couple of hours, try to find some record of the six people Hydra's Soldier had killed in a Washington hotel, but first decided to get some lunch. His feet took him to the market, not far from the centre of the city.

A few of the stall owners greeted him by name—or at least, the name they knew him by—and a couple offered him some daytime work over the next week or two. He took the offers, because things had been a little quieter than usual in the warehouse, then set about getting himself some lunch.

Because Ion and Irina would be by his apartment tomorrow for a French lesson, he bought a couple of candy bars. And because their mom despaired over him buying the children delicious unhealthy snacks, he stopped by the fruit stall to pick up some fresh plums. At least now he could say that he'd _offered_ them a healthier alternative to candy.

He left the market in the early afternoon and set off for the library, to continue his research. It was as he stood waiting to cross a road that he felt it. Somewhere deep inside him, for the first time in almost eighteen months, he felt the Soldier's eyes open. Felt the remnants of Hydra's assassin awaken. At the same time, another unpleasant, familiar feeling wound its way through his gut, and in an instant he recalled the last time he'd felt like this: in the church, in New York, beneath the judgemental eyes of the glass saints. And here in Bucharest, in the presence of the religious frescoes on the monastery wall.

 _I_ _'m being watched._

His heart began warming up for a marathon in his chest. Every muscle in his body felt tense in a way it hadn't since he'd settled in the city. Each breath seemed to catch in his throat, fuelling the panic rising from within.

As he stood waiting, he looked from left to right, his eyes scanning for the source of his discomfort. A moment later, he found it in the form of a newspaper seller across the street. The man was looking at him, watching him with a focused intent as if assessing a rabid dog for the first sign of aggression. A suggestion arose from one of the deep recesses of his mind.

 _Get intel._

Yes. Yes, he needed information. Speak to the newspaper seller. Find out why he was watching Bucky so closely. Probably nothing. Mistaken identity. They'd talk, and it would be a simple error.

He didn't get chance to talk. As soon as he set his sights on the seller, the man bolted as if afraid for his life, completely abandoning his stall. Hydra's Soldier recommended _chase_ , but Bucky ignored the suggestion. Instead of following, instead of causing a scene, he picked up the newspaper the man had been reading prior to his flight and came face to face with… his own face.

His heart momentarily stopped, then restarted again. It wasn't _his_ face. It was some guy in a mask with the words 'Winter Soldier' over the picture, the article silently accusing him of killing people in Vienna. It really _was_ a case of mistaken identity. Bucky had been forced to forget a lot, in his time as the Winter Soldier, but he was pretty damn sure he'd not been to Vienna. Not any time recently, at least. When he'd travelled through Austria, he'd avoided the city, preferring instead to travel through smaller towns. And there was no possible way he could have bombed some U.N. building, because last night he'd been working, and he'd spent the day at the library, where several dozen eye-witnesses could vouch for his presence, and he'd promised himself he wouldn't kill anyone else, and he certainly would have remembered doing something as terrible and large-scale as that.

Telling himself all of these things did not appease the Soldier. Words like _exposure_ and _compromised_ tumbled through his mind. The guy in the picture, whoever he was, looked enough like Bucky that if Bucky himself put on a ski mask and stepped in front of a rubbish, blurry, pixelly security camera, he might be mistaken for the guy in the mask.

 _Compromised._

The thought came again. Louder. Clearer. He looked around, and everywhere he looked he saw eyes watching him. Grey eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes, myriad shapes and sizes and shades… all of them seeing right through him, seeing inside him to all the terrible things he had done. Terrible things which did not, ironically, include the very thing he was now being accused of.

Below the article was a telephone number—a contact point for the CIA—and a request for anyone who'd seen the Winter Soldier to ring it right away. Too bad Bucky didn't have a phone; he could imagine the conversation right now.

' _Hello, CIA? This is the Winter Soldier. I just wanted to tell you that you're after the wrong guy. I've killed lots of people but I never bombed a U.N. building before. So, if you wouldn't mind calling off the hounds, that would be great. Thanks.'_

The Soldier had no sense of humour. There was only one thought.

 _Compromised._

Bucky was reluctantly forced to agree. It didn't matter that he hadn't bombed anything or killed anyone recently. It didn't matter that the guy in the mask bore only a passing resemblance to him and could basically have been pretty much anyone in a ski mask. The _truth_ didn't matter, because the _lie_ was so much more convincing, and a hundred thousand people believing a lie could be more dangerous than one person believing a truth. The paper seller's reaction to him was all the incentive he needed. It was time to get the hell out of Bucharest.

o - o - o - o - o

Steve made his way up the stairs, crouched low, climbing on his tiptoes to make himself as silent as possible. Stealth had never been his strong point; over 6ft tall, clad in a bright spangly uniform, and carrying a flashy shield, he was a soldier, designed to be seen and heard because that was the nature of the Second World War. Fight the good fight, make an impact and be seen doing it.

Bucky had always been better at sneaking, and his decades with Hydra had clearly done marvels for his ability to remain hidden. Seventy years' worth of assassinations, and the intelligence community had largely considered him a myth. Two years out in the 'real world' and not a single peep from the Winter Soldier. Steve himself had seen his best friend at work, seen not just the Winter Soldier's strength and ferocity, but also his dexterity and stealth. Seen him disappear in the middle of a street, in broad daylight, with nothing but a puff of smoke as cover.

The sound of his rapidly pounding heart was loud in his own ears, but he could do nothing about that. Battle-tension was old hat, but best-friend-turned-assassin tension? That was still pretty new.

 _What if he doesn_ _'t remember me? What if he_ does _?_

Both thoughts brought their own concerns… concerns which Steve refused to let sit on his shoulders, whispering in his ears. Whatever Bucky's state of mind, he would deal with it. Until he had more information, worry and doubt were pointless. When he found Bucky, he would make a plan. He would get his friend the heck outta Dodge before the CIA turned him into a distant memory. Or, and this was infinitely more likely, until the CIA _tried_ to turn him into a distant memory and a whole bunch of good men got themselves killed for following the wrong orders. Bucky might not have a shield to throw, but he was hardly defenceless, and Steve knew only too well how desperately his friend would fight for his life.

 _It might be a bust. False lead. Like Krakow._

No. Not this time. The CIA had mobilised a huge task-force for this. They wouldn't move on a false lead. Wouldn't commit themselves to such an action, on foreign soil, unless they had something solid. Steve had seen that something, and it was pretty darn solid.

As he climbed, as he neared the door that drew the focus of his gaze, Bucky's face flashed through his mind, over and over, a face full of confusion and pain as it watched Steve fall. Hydra had tried to destroy him, but Bucky was still alive. So what if he'd chosen to remain hidden for the past two years? That didn't mean anything. It just meant the guy wanted to be alone. It didn't mean he'd forgotten their friendship completely. Aloneness was something Steve could understand. The world was big, and strange. Even he was still adapting. How much more difficult was Bucky finding it, after being brainwashed and taken in and out of cryo for seventy years?

 _What if he_ _'s a completely broken mess?_

Steve pushed that thought aside, too. If Bucky was a broken mess, Steve would just have to help fix him up. That was what friends did for each other. It was what Bucky had done for him, after his mom had died, and Steve was now the only friend Bucky had left in the world. He just had to make sure that this time, he didn't let his friend down.

Outside the door, he stopped and pressed his ear against the wood. There was a pounding from within the room—or was that the pounding of his own heart inside his chest? _Get it together, Steve,_ he told himself. _This is Bucky._

 _I hope._

He pulled back to examine the lock on the door. He probably should've brought one of those fancy lock-picking things Nat kept stashed around the compound; she hoarded espionage toys like a squirrel hoarded acorns. But doors had never been a problem for Steve. In the past, before his time in the ice, any doors that had managed to stand fast against him had been dealt with by the Commandos. More recently, they'd been dealt with by Stark, or Thor, or Nat, or Banner…

But Stark, and Thor, and Nat, and Banner, they weren't here right now. Two were gone, picking up their own lives away from the madness. And the other two would not be inclined to help him if they knew he was here. Thanks to the leash held by their new masters, they wouldn't help him; they would stop him. Nat had already confirmed that much.

He'd just have to do this the old-fashioned way. Leaning forward, he pressed his shoulder into the door, right where the lock was, and pushed with his legs, gently forcing the full weight of his body against the single point of the lock. When it quickly gave way, he went stumbling clumsily into the apartment, catching himself before he could fall over entirely. Communist-era construction, it seemed, was not particularly robust.

Even as he was straightening up, his eyes were scanning the room for movement. For Bucky. It was empty of anything living, and a single thought skipped fleetingly through his mind.

 _This is the wrong place._

This couldn't be where his friend had been living. This… this, view-less, papered-up tomb of a room, with its mismatched furniture, its cracked-screen television set, its lumpy old mattress on the floor, its smell of damp and mildew carried around by breezes which made their way in from the cracks around the old wooden window frames… this could not be where Bucky lived. What little light was available came from a small fluorescent tube which bathed the whole room in a pale and sickly aura. This wasn't Bucky. His friend was better than this. More than this. This… it was like being buried alive.

He stepped forward, looking for some sign of his friend. For a stray baseball card, for a pin-up of some beautiful girl, for a pair of shoes discarded haphazardly where they might be tripped over, but whoever lived here—and it definitely couldn't be Bucky—had not put any personal mark on this place.

A book on top of the fridge caught his eye, and he reached out to pluck it from beneath a couple of protein bars. It was a notebook, not unlike the one Steve himself carried for making notes and doodling, but this one was larger, and thicker. A half-dozen sticky tabs marked certain pages, and when he opened it at random his eyes fell onto a scrawl of words littering the page as if they'd been written down with more care for speed than style.

When he turned to the front of the book, something written on the inside cover made elation fly within his chest, while pangs of disappointment turned his stomach into cold, hard knots.

' _Memories of J. B. Barnes. If found, please return to: Steve Rogers, Captain America, USA'_

Bucky remembered him! For the first time in two years, he allowed the tiny flames of hope inside him to fan into a full-blown conflagration. All was not lost. His friend was not lost. Whatever Hydra had done to him was at least partially undone because _Bucky remembered him!_

But… that meant this really was Bucky's apartment. He'd been living here in this virtual tomb for only God knew how long. Sealed himself away, cutting himself off from the outside world, hiding in the darkness, and the damp.

A loose slip of paper sticking out from an inner page caught his eye. Turning to it, he found himself looking at a picture of… himself. Or rather, Captain America, spangly uniform and all. But why was the picture there? Was it Bucky's way of remembering his friend's face, or the Winter Soldier's way of remembering his Mission?

Sam's voice spoke quietly into his ear-piece, calm and steady even under pressure. _"Heads up, Cap. German special forces approaching from the south."_

"Understood," he acknowledged. He'd hoped he'd have longer than this, a chance to find his friend and figure out what the hell was going on, but the CIA were desperate enough to turn the eye of the public to this hunt; they wouldn't give Steve the time he needed, not even if he asked politely.

A prickling feeling sprang up between his shoulder blades, an itchy sort of not-aloneness that he'd felt before. He didn't know how he knew, but he just knew; he wasn't the only one in the room anymore, and there was only one person in the whole world who could've snuck up on Captain America.

Not sure whether he was going to greet his best friend or fight the Winter Soldier, he turned around.

o - o - o - o - o

Bucky's senses were on high alert, everything tense, everything strained. His eyes took in every tiny detail as he climbed the stairwell, and his augmented hearing picked up the sounds of the traffic far below. He didn't run, because not even he could run without making some noise, but he trotted up the stairs, the muscles of his legs coiled springs which absorbed the impact. The rubber soles of his boots made his footsteps quiet enough that not even a dog would have heard them.

When he reached his apartment door, he stopped. It was ajar. Someone was in his room. _Should_ _'a got that damn lock fixed_. But it was too late now for thoughts of regret and hindsight. He hadn't fixed the lock, and now someone was in his room, standing between him and his memories. It wasn't the children. Not this time. They never left the door ajar like that.

He stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him. His feet automatically selected the floorboard which didn't creak, and he ghosted forward in silence, towards the man standing in his kitchen. The man who woke the Soldier with a snarl of _'my Mission!'_

 _No,_ Bucky thought, pushing the Soldier back down. _My friend._

Steve turned, and Bucky froze. The uniform was different, but his eyes… those were the same. Deep blue and full of caution and concern. _Last time we met, I shot him and turned his face into a giant bruise._ His stomach turned uncomfortably. This wasn't Steve, it was Captain America. Steve was his friend, but Captain America had a job to do. But Bucky couldn't fight Captain America—not again—because under Captain America was Steve, just like Bucky himself had been under the Winter Soldier. Steve had seen that and refused to fight. How could Bucky do any less?

"Do you know me?" Steve asked.

Bucky's eyes went straight to the notepad in Steve's hands, and the panic leapt from his stomach into his head. Steve was holding his memories of Steve himself. But that didn't mean anything. Didn't mean he'd looked at them. Didn't mean he'd read them. He'd just picked up a book. That was all.

Suddenly, it was too much. Steve's eyes were watching him like those glass saints in the windows, like the painted saints of the frescoes, but this was a thousand times worse, because Steve wasn't some glass representation of a guy who might once have been alive; he was a real person, a person who knew at least some of what Bucky had done as the Winter Soldier, and his eyes weren't harsh and judgemental; they were full of something much, much worse: hope.

 _Lie._ The thought shot through his mind like a lightning bolt. He would have to lie. Then Steve wouldn't expect him to be the Bucky Barnes he'd known since childhood. That Bucky Barnes wasn't back yet. Might never be back. The Bucky he was now… he was comfortable with that. He could handle that. It wasn't too much. It wasn't too fast.

"You're Steve," he said. His voice sounded like a stranger's voice in his own ears. The lies which had fallen so easily over the past two years now felt wooden. Forced. "I read about you in a museum."

Steve put down the notebook, and it felt as if a hand that had been gripping Bucky's heart, squeezing it tightly, finally released some of the pressure. "I know you're nervous," said Steve. _Oh, you have no idea, pal._ "And you have plenty of reason to be." Steve's eyes turned a little harder. A little less understanding. When he spoke, there was a colder tone of accusation in the voice which had been pitched to soothe. "But you're lying."

 _Get out get out get out,_ the Soldier insisted in tempo to Bucky's racing heart. Bucky ignored the suggestion. The Soldier was just a collection of ideas and commands, dependent entirely upon orders and constraints. There were only two ways the Soldier could instinctively deal with a situation: _Fight_ or _Flee_. Bucky would not let him fight Steve again, and as for _Flee_ … There was a third path. There was always another way.

"I wasn't in Vienna," he said, appealing not to the rigid bundle of rules and duty that was Captain America, but to the man beneath him. The man who had once been his oldest, closest friend. A part of his family. The only part of any family he had left. "I don't do that anymore." _I_ _'m a good boy, now. No killing. No fighting. Hell, I'm practically running a daycare centre here._

It was hard to read Steve with his helmet on, but Bucky thought his friend was going for relieved, concerned and afraid, all at once.

"Well the people who think you did are coming here now, and they're not planning on taking you alive."

 _Oh._

Maybe he should've been afraid at that thought. Worried for his life. Concerned about getting out of this in one piece. But those thoughts, those feelings, were absent. Instead, he felt only one thing: overwhelming sadness.

For two years he'd lived quietly. Tried to atone, to make up for the terrible things he'd been forced to do. He'd tried so hard to change, and had managed to keep a leash on the things Hydra had put inside of him. And all of his time, and his effort… it was for nothing. The world did not care about James Buchanan Barnes. They didn't want to know how hard he'd tried to be different. They were coming here to kill him without even asking him if he'd done it. Without even reading him his rights. As far as they were concerned, he had no rights. He wasn't a person, he was a thing. They were just like Hydra. Worse than Hydra, because they were supposed to be the good guys.

"That's smart," he heard himself say. "Good strategy." But he barely even registered his own words. He was too busy trying to swim the wave of dark thoughts rising from within, struggling against the riptide which tried to pull him under.

 _The chair. They_ _'ll shoot me 'til I can't move then put me back in the chair. They'll take my thoughts and my memories and burn them so the world never knows, and then it will be like I was never here. They'll turn me into a weapon, they'll make me hurt for them, kill for them._

Footsteps pattered across the roof of the apartment complex. Many feet. Many boots. Many soldiers. They would surround him. Take him alive, if they could. Kill him if they couldn't.

Steve's shoulders squared. Captain America readying himself for what inevitably had to come. "This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck."

His friend's sentiment almost made him laugh aloud. _Almost_. That Steve, of all people—Steve, who was first to enter a fight and last to leave it—thought he could get his friend out of this mess by _talking_ … _Oh God, Steve, the irony!_

The Soldier swung like a pendulum inside him. _Fight. Flee. Fight. Flee._ Could a guy not get a little peace, even inside his own head?

 _Fight, and then Flee._

He had his escape routes planned. If he could get to the metro he could disappear underground, into one of the engineering tunnels. Make his way below the city into the sewers, come out near the train station, hop on a train to somewhere distant. North, he would go north, and east, to Russia. If the CIA was on his trail, they wouldn't find it as easy to operate there. He could disappear. Russia was a big country.

But first, he had to get there. Had to get through the soldiers and the crowds. Had to get underground. For that, he would need help. Need to be something more than a broken collection of memories and regrets. He needed to be a soldier again.

Taking a deep breath, he let go of something inside, some part of him that kept Hydra's weapon at bay. He felt the darkness rise up, images and commands falling through his head, knowledge of how and when and where to kick and punch and throw to incapacitate a group of opponents. He let the darkness rise, then pushed back to keep it from overwhelming him. He brought back the memories of Mom and Dad, of Mary-Ann and Charlie and Janet, of Dum Dum and Gabe and Falsworth and the others, of Wells and Carrot and Franklin and Davies, and he used them all as a shield, placing them between the darkness and himself. There, he found a balance; Bucky Barnes on one side of the scale, Winter Soldier on the other.

He pulled off his gloves, revealing first his hand of flesh, then the one of metal. The men on the roof had come to kill the Winter Soldier. He would show them just how difficult that would be.

"It always ends in a fight," he said. But he wasn't sure whether it was Bucky or the Soldier who spoke those words.

"You pulled me from the river!" said Steve. Bucky looked up at his friend, saw the hope and confusion and fear swirling around in his eyes, and the desperation in Steve's voice tugged at something inside him. _Steve believes in me_. He should've known that if there was one person in this world who understood him, it would be Steve. "Why?" his friend demanded.

"I dunno."

"Yes, you do."

For one long second, Bucky looked at his friend and let himself believe that everything would be okay. Then, the world erupted. Smoke grenades were launched through the windows, and the Soldier reacted on instinct. Bucky let him move, let him defend, let him disable the men who were trying their hardest to erase him from the world. He kept one hand on the reins, holding the Soldier back, preventing his own strikes from becoming lethal. _No more killing._

At one point, Steve was there, using his shield to protect Bucky from the bullets, as Bucky used his memories to protect himself from the Soldier.

"Buck, stop!" said Steve, grabbing his arm as a new wave of soldiers prepared to breach the apartment. "You're gonna kill someone."

 _Steve, you don_ _'t understand. Kill someone? That's the last thing I want. I'm holding back. I won't let Hydra use me again. This is pretty much as gentle as I can be, now._

He spun to free himself from his friend's grip, sending Captain America spinning onto his back. _Time to go._ "I'm not gonna kill anyone," he assured his friend. Though, listening to his own words, they didn't sound very reassuring. But that was the Soldier for you. He wasn't made for reassurance.

He balled up his cybernetic fist and smashed it through the floorboards. No time for subtlety. Already he could hear voices outside the door, voices calling out commands in German; a request for a battering ram, orders for everyone to be prepared. It was time to go.

When his hand closed around his backpack, he pulled it out of the floor and threw it out the broken window, onto the top of the next building over. He could collect his memories en route to the metro, and they were safer out there than they were in here.

As a second wave of antagonists forced their way into the apartment, the Soldier moved again. He took out a couple of gunmen, threw Steve at another—regretted it—and made his way to the apartment door. Strong and tough he might be, but he was not indestructible. Even the Winter Soldier would not walk away unscathed from a jump from the top of the apartment block. He had to go lower.

Bucky hovered beneath the surface of the Soldier, feeling his body move, holding it back where necessary, watching as the Soldier kicked and punched and brawled his way through the swath of black-clad gunmen. Steve appeared above, which spurred the Soldier on. He wasn't just trying to get away from the men out for blood, he was trying to get away from the man Bucky still didn't know how to deal with. The word 'friend' did not feature in the Soldier's chain of command; it was a concept completely alien to Hydra's weapon.

When Bucky accidentally knocked a gunman over the stairwell railing, Steve caught him and gave his friend such a typically Steve look, that, for a moment, the Soldier faltered. "C'mon, man," Steve admonished. _Yeah, yeah, I_ _'m sorry, but it's not like I have much room to manoeuvre in here,_ Bucky thought to his friend.

Then the Soldier was off again, doing what he did best, held back by Bucky. A flying shield knocked a gunman aside just before the man could open fire, and Bucky glanced up at his friend. Even in the chaos of combat, he couldn't help but appreciate the irony in the situation. _All those times I pulled some guy off you in some back alley, now you_ _'re doing the same for me. But dammit, Steve, these are the 'good guys' you're getting in the way of. They're not gonna let you walk away from that. Not this time._

The Soldier prompted him to leap, so he did, launching himself over the guard rails, dropping a couple of storeys to bypass the gunmen. The thought of doing this back in the old days, when he'd been plain ol' Sergeant Barnes, would have been out of the question. Since then, he'd been upgraded. Had training. Even if he hadn't known he could handle the drop, the Soldier knew it. The Soldier had done this sort of thing before. Many times before.

He reached out with his left hand as he fell, catching himself on the railings. The painful yank on his arm pulled a snarl from the Soldier's lips, but he pushed away the pain and heaved himself over the rail. Already he could see the fire escape, his route to safety. Down the narrow corridor he ran, out into the world.

When he hit the fresh air and sunlight, it felt like running into a wall, but he let his momentum carry him forward, pushing off from the floor in another athletic leap. He fell, and fell, and the roof of the building next door rose up to meet him. He landed in a roll, which was also like running into a wall, but recovered immediately to grab his bag and head for the next drop. His freedom was so close that he could almost taste it.

o - o - o - o - o

If somebody had told Steve, at the start of this week, that he'd be ending it with a high-speed car chase along one of Bucharest's main thoroughfares, he would have thought they were crazy. But here he was, behind the wheel of a CIA-mobile that he'd hijacked, chasing his childhood best friend, who was in turn being chased by a guy wearing a costume that had some definite cat-like properties. But that wasn't the most worrying thing. More worrying was the fact that Bucky and the guy in the cat-costume were _beating_ the car in a race that would have pushed even Steve's abilities to their limits.

It was time to stop playing it safe. He slammed his foot down on the throttle, and the needle on the vehicle's rev counter leapt into the red. As he caught up to cat-guy, and then started to overtake, the man in the suit reached out and grabbed hold of the car. Steve felt it as a soft impact, but a collision warning alarm suddenly started flashing on the dash. At least, he _thought_ it was a collision alarm; it could have been the CD player.

The guy in the costume clung on easily no matter how hard Steve tried to shake him loose. _No, this definitely isn_ _'t how this day is supposed to end. And I get the feeling I'm gonna hear an 'I told you so' from Nat, before this is over._

He tapped his ear-piece when he made out a familiar outline in his rear-view mirror. "Sam," he said, "I can't shake this guy."

"I'm right behind you," Sam replied.

Steve couldn't afford to slow the car to give Sam a chance to catch up, so he forced the vehicle on, swerving between lanes to overtake and undertake, offering silent apologies of _Sorry, sorry!_ to the people who honked their car horns at his aggressive driving style.

He was gonna get an _'I told you so'_ from Stark, too. He could already hear it. But what could a guy do? There was no way he was going to let his friend get shot, and if doing the right thing meant a few fender-benders… well, it was a small price to pay.

Flashing lights were everywhere, blaring sirens, splashes of white cop-cars and black CIA 4x4s. Bucky was still several cars' distance ahead, but his friend couldn't outrun them forever.

 _Oh, Buck, why_ _'d you have to run? Why couldn't you let me help?_ Steve shook his head. Told himself this wasn't _all_ Bucky. This was whatever Hydra had put him through. The torturous experiences of the past seventy years. He couldn't exactly blame the guy for his trust issues. All he could do was try his best to help.

 _Time to even the odds._

He pulled hard left on the wheel of his pilfered vehicle, slamming into another black CIA car, sending it veering into another lane. The black car took a couple of police vehicles with it, but the cat-guy on the back of Steve's car wasn't dislodged so easily. Whatever he was wearing, it was one hell of a suit.

A police barricade up ahead suddenly changed the playing field. As Steve watched, Bucky finally slowed, swerved, jumped over a barrier to the opposite side of the freeway and was off again. _Darn it all to heck and back!_ Steve pulled hard left again, went careening through a line of barrels, spraying cement powder everywhere, but managed to keep Bucky in view. He'd already seen his friend disappear in a puff of smoke once; if the Winter Soldier managed to get out of sight, Steve might never find Bucky again.

The blaring horns were louder, now that the traffic on the road was coming _towards_ him. Vehicles veered out of his way, cars and trucks and buses all managing, by some miracle, to avoid hitting his car. Steve's suited stowaway was still hanging on with an ease that was enviable. When he checked his rear mirror again, he could just about make out Sam dodging trucks as he tried to keep up. _Be careful, man_ , Steve thought silently to his friend. _In that EXO-7 suit, at that speed, you_ _'re a bug on a windshield if you hit something._

The expression brought a smile tugging at his lips. He'd said something similar back in Switzerland, to Bucky and Gabe, back when things had been simpler… less shades of grey. But the smile died quickly when he remembered how that mission had ended. How he'd lost his friend. How he'd let Bucky down. With a frown pulling his brow lower, he squeezed another millimetre out of the throttle.

Though he'd lost the police cars and the spook vehicles, at least for the moment, Bucky showed no signs of wanting to slow down, to stop and try to talk this through, which gave Steve yet another reason to hate Hydra. Back in the good old days, Bucky had been the voice of reason, able to talk himself into—and out of—almost anything. When Steve stood up to bullies, they seemed to take it as an insult and invariably reacted with derision. Yet, when Bucky told someone to quit it, or show a little respect, they listened. Maybe they grumbled about it later, when Bucky wasn't around to hear, but in the heat of the moment, when it really mattered, they listened. Hydra had taken that man and turned him into something else. _Someone_ else. Turned him into a man who no longer believed in employing words before fists. A tiny, traitorous voice inside Steve's mind pointed out that maybe he could never be that Bucky again.

' _Shut up,'_ he told the voice. _'I'm trying to save my friend, and I don't have time to listen to you.'_

He ignored the voice again when it pointed out that Bucky didn't really seem to _need_ Steve's help; he was doing a pretty good job of saving himself, and if it hadn't been for cat-guy, Bucky would have gotten clean away from the apartment. One small reason to be grateful to cat-guy.

Up ahead, he saw Bucky grab hold of a motorbike speeding towards him, saw his friend ditch the rider and swing the bike around, and for a moment hope flared in his chest, because his friend wouldn't have tried the dangerous procedure of grabbing a moving bike unless he was running at a speed he could neither maintain nor increase. Then the hope dimmed, because Bucky was now on a bike, and bikes could go much faster than chemically-enhanced super-soldiers.

His heart nearly leapt into his mouth when the cat-guy launched himself forward, padding across the roof of the car. Reaching the hood, the guy used his momentum to launch himself forwards, right at Bucky. Steve could do nothing but watch as this new enhanced player flew with claws outstretched… only to be caught in mid-jump by Bucky, who'd seen him in the bike mirrors. _I wonder how old I_ _'ll have to be before I'm officially too old for this,_ Steve thought as his heart worked overtime. He watched again as cat-guy turned the tables on Bucky, flipping off the side of the tunnel through which they drove, leaning the bike over at a sickening angle that made Steve's stomach lurch in horror.

Had Bucky tried to slow, he—and the bike, and the cat-guy—would have lost momentum and gone sliding out of control along the road. By some miracle, Bucky kept the bike up to speed, tossing the cat-guy, who caught the back of the bike and the clambered over to take a swipe at Bucky while he was busy using his metal arm to stop the entire thing grinding into the asphalt. Steve didn't know if his friend felt pain in that arm, but the flying sparks and the screech of metal on concrete made him wince in sympathy anyway. Again, Bucky's fast reflexes saved him; as the cat-guy prepared to strike, he kicked out with his leg, dislodging him from the bike. Cat-guy went flying back into the road, and Steve swerved to dodge him.

Now the road was relatively free of obstacles and opponents. It was just Steve in the car and Bucky on the bike. Two wheels versus four. Of course, it wasn't that simple. His life was _never_ that simple. Bucky had one last trick up his sleeve, a trick which he threw up to the tunnel overhead. As a fireball erupted, sending hard concrete flying and partially collapsing the tunnel, Steve realised he'd underestimated the Winter Soldier.

 _Again._

o - o - o - o - o

The world was whirling out of control, like one of those spinning vortex tunnels he'd been through in a fun-house back on Coney Island when he was a kid. Only, this spinning tunnel involved the bike, and the road, and Bucky rolling and bouncing along the ground, his limbs being painfully jarred in their sockets. He tried to use his metal arm to slow his roll, but his body was already cartwheeling out of control, and his mind was just along for the ride.

Even before he'd stopped rolling, before he could clear his mind of the vertigo his tumble along the asphalt had inflicted on him, before he could try to determine just _what the hell_ had happened, there was a blur of movement, and that damn cat-suit-guy was there again, poised above him, ready to strike down with those claws that had gone through solid steel like it was butter. And all Bucky could do was lie there and try _not_ to think about how queasy that Coney Island rotating tunnel had made him feel.

When he'd first been attacked by the cat-guy on the hot concrete roof of the building next to his apartment, even the Soldier had been shocked. _This wasn_ _'t supposed to happen._ In all of his life as Sergeant James Barnes, in all of his missions as the Winter Soldier, he had never before met anybody—other than Captain America—who could match him for speed and strength. Even Steve's Avenger friends had been nothing more than a momentary distraction. But the cat-suit-guy had changed all that, fighting with a speed, skill and ferocity that rivalled that of the Soldier.

As Bucky stared up at those deadly claws, only one thought crossed his mind. _What the hell did I ever do to him, to deserve this?_

A blue and white blur tackled cat-suit-guy, and Bucky used the opportunity to push himself to his feet. Somewhere during the chase, he'd screwed up. Let fear and worry sink in. His control on the barrier of people and memories keeping himself and the Soldier separate had shattered, and through some act of providence, the Soldier had sunk back down into the depths of Bucky's mind, too weary to remain active and give any further input. Now that the Soldier had abandoned him, Bucky was on his own.

 _Almost._

Steve sprang to his feet after flinging cat-suit-guy away from Bucky, and stood beside him, ready to face off against this new opponent. _Just like in the old days,_ thought Bucky. _Only now, Steve thinks he_ _'s protecting me, instead of me protecting him._ Not for the first time, he realised how lucky he was to have a friend as loyal, and dumb, and crazy as Steve.

The scream of police sirens ended the stand-off before it could truly begin, and Bucky found he wasn't at all surprised when, just a few seconds later, another man in another suit fell out of the sky and landed with a heavy thud on the ground, enough firepower to satisfy even the Howling Commandos pointing at the trio. Very little about Steve's crazy life surprised him anymore.

"Stand down, now," warned flying-tin-can-suit-guy.

For all of two seconds, Bucky considered running, but even if he could outrun Steve, and cat-suit-guy, how could he outrun flying-tin-can-suit-guy and his many guns? His reflexes were fast, but he didn't think they were fast enough to dodge rockets. Certainly not without the Soldier's input, and the Soldier had already abandoned him to his fate.

A dozen or more police cars screeched to a halt, a posse of officers scrambling for their weapons as they sheltered behind the open doors of their vehicles. All thoughts of fleeing fled. There was no way he could get out of this. There were too many guns. He was too surrounded. Suddenly too tired to run any longer.

"Congratulations, Cap," said flying-tin-can-suit-guy, when Steve put down his shield. "You're a criminal."

It sounded like a death-sentence, but when Bucky glanced to his best friend-turned-Mission-turned-protector's face, he saw something he wasn't expecting. It was a look of victory and defiance that said, _Yeah, but it was worth it._

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: You may expect my publishing schedule to slow down just a little as work unfortunately gets busier for me. I'll try to aim for bi-weekly updates when I can, but at the very least, I'll update once a week. If you're not already Following the story, feel free to hit the magic button so you don't miss out on new chapters. The way the story's progressing right now, it'll probably be finished by chapter 25. Not bad, for something I initially planned to tell in ten._


	18. Bucky, Interrupted

_Author_ _'s Note: I'm Anglicising Russian words. Sorry, Russia, but most of my audience don't speak that. And we all know what's being said anyway.  
_

* * *

Running To You

 _18\. Bucky, Interrupted_

Bucky had always considered himself a 'personal space' kinda guy, and he was very particular about who he let into his. Now, he had no choice in the matter. A half-dozen pairs of hands wrestled him to the ground, forced him into tight cuffs, then hauled him to his feet, and they weren't gentle about any of it. At least ten guns were trained on him, even when he was cuffed, so he kept his gaze down as they frog-marched him to a large armoured truck, careful not to make eye contact in case somebody interpreted it as a threat and prematurely pulled the trigger.

When they stopped him beside the truck and took away his bag, carrying off his memories to be put somewhere cold and dark, he wanted to cry. To lash out and stop them from leaving with everything he remembered of the man he had been. He watched until the man carrying the backpack was out of sight, and then he watched a little more, just in case the guy changed his mind and brought the memories back.

The hands moved him on, guiding him up the tailgate ramp of the truck, stopping him in front of a large glass-like containment cell inside which waited for him something from his deepest, darkest nightmares; a shiny, cold, metal chair.

 _Flash._

 _He was cold. So cold. And the light was a piercing, burning, torturous thing which hurt his eyes; only minutes out of cryo, his muscles hadn_ _'t woken properly yet, and his eyes could not adapt, his pupils still contracting too slowly, too sluggishly, to stop the light burning._

 _Flash._

 _Strong hands half-carried, half-dragged him to the inner sanctum of the silo, where many doctors, and many more Hydra foot-soldiers, were waiting._

 _Flash._

 _His muscles were too numb, too asleep, to object when the hands lifted him up into an icy metal chair, pressing him into the cold embrace of the device. His mind was a fog, but through that fog he felt a deep panic rising, and a voice repeating over and over, a terrified crescendo of_ _'no, no, NO, NO!'_

 _Flash._

 _A cold, steel restraint was clamped around his right arm, the metal chilling his already cold flesh. He didn_ _'t feel the clamp around his left arm, but he heard it click into place, the heavy lock securing him, holding him still._

 _Flash._

 _His vision dimmed as something descended with a mechanical whirr, a machine cradling his head in an unpleasant embrace of plastic and metal._ _'NO NO NO NO NO' the voice screamed, and his heart began racing, sweat prickling through his pores, dampening his skin._

 _Flash._

 _Arcs of lightning stabbed into his head, needle-like fingers searing his mind with lashes of burning pain. He heard cries of agony which he recognised as his own, but was too disconnected from them to stop them. Images raced through his mind, bright scenes snuffed out like dying candles, here one moment and gone the next. A scent flooded his nostrils, filling up his head, a smell of burning and char like his mind had just been super-heated to its flashpoint._

 _Flash._

 _He was released from the chair. The pain lingered inside his mind, little aftershock flashes stabbing him as the storm of burning fire receded. And in the background, the voice was silent._

 _Flash._

At the sight of the chair in the glass-like cage, he froze, and hands tried to push him forward. Already he could feel the first fingers of searing fire stabbing into his head like needles through his eyes. The Soldier, who had so casually abandoned him during the chase, roared violently to life, and a voice ricocheted around his skull, growing in volume and tempo. _No no no NO NO NO NO! **NO!**_

He struggled against everything at once. The Soldier was trying to control his body, to get away from the pain he knew was about to come; for once, Bucky didn't want to stop him. There was a voice screaming inside his head, and he didn't know which part of him it belonged to. His body felt out of his control, his legs pushing back, shoulders heaving as he tried to free his wrists from their restraints, head thrashing against the hands that tried to hold it still. A gun was jabbed into the small of his back, but Bucky and the Soldier no longer cared. Hydra had used the moments after his revival from cryo to put him into their chair, exploiting his half-sleeping half-frozen body, his only true moments of weakness, to force him to undergo the painful, destructive procedure. Now, there was no cryo. He was not weak, and they would never get him back into the chair. Not whilst he had an ounce of strength left in his body.

"What are you doing to him?!" a familiar voice cried out in anguish.

Bucky turned his head, trying to look over his shoulder. He couldn't see Steve, but no doubt his friend had heard the commotion. Steve would help. Steve wouldn't let them put him back into the chair.

 _No, no._ He closed his eyes as the grim reality of the situation came rushing back in. _Steve can_ _'t help. You heard what flying-tin-can-suit-guy said; Steve's a criminal now, all because he helped you get away. They won't let him help. And if he tries to help, they'll stop him. Hurt him. You're going to get your best friend killed._

The thought gave him strength, strength enough to overcome the snarling, feral thrashing of the Soldier. Strength enough to force his body into compliance. He couldn't stop the shaking, or the shivering, or the fingers of pain still stabbing inside his head, but he could at least stop his best friend from being hurt. For Bucky, Steve had—for the first and only time in his life—stopped fighting, and now Bucky had to do the same.

He kept his eyes closed as they forced him up the ramp. The chair was there. He knew it. But not seeing it… that helped. A little. Not having to watch its cold, evil gleam, not having to see his body pushed into it… he forced the mental image away, tried not to even imagine himself being lowered into the tortuous contraption.

The Soldier tried to intervene again when he was forced to sit, but Bucky kept him down, under control. He remained tense but still as his arms were held motionless and clamped into place. A mechanical groan turned out to be more restraints lowering over his shoulders, pinning him back against the chair, whilst another two came around his upper arms, holding them tight against his chest. These guys were taking no chances.

There was no machine to cradle his head. The device responsible for trying to erase his memories over and over again, was absent. But that didn't make the chair any easier to sit in. It didn't make the white light in the cell any less harsh, and it certainly didn't calm the tightly-strung Soldier within him. When the truck's engine was started, Bucky forced his thoughts elsewhere. Forced his mind away from the guards, and the cell, and the chair.

 _Irina and Ion. What happened to them? I can_ _'t imagine the CIA would have gone on their all-out assault with a building full of civilians to get in the way. They must'a been evacuated. Did they see the newspaper article? Did the CIA tell them I'm a bad guy? Do they believe the lies?_

He saw them in his mind. Irina, in her pretty flower dress and pigtails. Ion, wearing jeans that were too big for him, and a faded blue t-shirt. Both of them, hiding behind their mother when he approached them, their dark eyes fearful, too afraid to even look at him, seeing only a monster in place of the man they'd gotten to know over the past year…

That was all anyone saw, now. When he opened his eyes to peep out at the armed guards in the truck, he could see how tense they were, how afraid to be in the same vehicle even though he was held immobile and they had guns. This show of force seemed excessive, even for the sake of someone who'd allegedly bombed the U.N. At that moment, he realised something which chilled him to the bone.

 _They knew about him_.

He thought he'd managed to disappear for these past two years. To live a quiet life and drop off the radar. But he hadn't disappeared, because his past was still there, and all the things he'd done as the Winter Soldier had not gone away. For two years, the CIA—and probably lots of other people—had been collecting information on him. Information probably data-mined from Hydra's leaked files. They knew who he was and what he could do, and they'd come fully prepared.

What would happen to him now? What would happen to Steve, and Steve's flying friend who'd tried to help even though Bucky had once tried to kill him? Would they all be locked away? Put somewhere deep underground, far from the eyes and ears of the world? Would three people simply disappear, like that archaeology team in Mexico?

He tried to put the thoughts aside, to force his mind back to some happier, more pleasant memory. It was a pity his choice of pleasant memories was so slim.

o - o - o - o - o

Vision had been right.

The thought crossed Steve's mind as the convoy hit the German border in the early hours of the morning. It had driven overnight, passing through Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, the Czech Republic and Poland, stopping only to refuel once, in Slovakia, at a gas station that had already been temporarily appropriated by the CIA by the time the convoy got there. There had been no rest-stop, no chance for Steve to check up on the welfare of his friend, not even the opportunity to grab a sandwich for Sam, who got kinda irritable when he skipped meals. Confined to an armoured CIA car with Sam and the newly vengeful King T'Challa, it had been a very tense trip across Europe.

Vision had been right. The android hadn't been right about everything, but there was one thing Steve could not deny; the number of enhanced individuals in the world had increased exponentially of late, and it was a number that seemed to be growing on a daily basis.

It had all started in 1943, with Steve himself. After that had come Banner, and Stark, and Rhodey and Thor and Sam, and then Bucky had been revealed as the Winter Soldier, followed shortly after by Wanda and Pietro and Vision himself. And though Nat and Barton weren't technologically, chemically or genetically enhanced, they were at least at the top of their game. Now there was King T'Challa, with his supernatural speed and reflexes, and his impressive vibranium suit. And as the convoy crossed into Germany, Steve couldn't help but wonder: what would tomorrow bring?

The procession reached Berlin in time for the morning rush-hour, but every traffic light in the city switched to green as the armoured vehicles approached. Steve put aside all thoughts of tomorrow; first, he had to get through today. He could still remember the pained growls of fear coming from the back of the armoured truck when the black-clad gunmen had taken his friend away. If Steve hadn't already surrendered his shield, he might've tried to spring Bucky again, at that sound, because what in the world could make the _Winter Soldier_ afraid?

"Looks like they're rolling out a welcoming party for us," said Sam, pulling Steve's focus back to their surroundings. Their car had just pulled into a subterranean parking lot, and as it came to a halt he spotted what Sam had seen; a pair of armed men flanking a man and a blonde-haired woman.

 _Sharon!_

Steve's heart momentarily soared to dizzying heights, skipping a few beats along the way. It had been only two days since he'd last seen her, since she'd given him that vital head-start in Vienna, but in some ways it felt like two years. He already owed her so much, and now she was here, too. His head told him she was here because of work, because this was where her superiors had sent her. His heart hoped it wasn't the _only_ reason she was meeting him personally in the underground receiving area.

She gave him a very small smile when he stepped out of the car, but even that tiny gesture was enough to make Steve melt a little on the inside. All business-like and professional, she introduced the guy she worked for—Everett Ross—but Steve's attention was already back on his friend. The cell they'd put Bucky in was being offloaded from the truck, and inside it, Bucky looked small and uneasy, like a kid who was being punished for something he knew he hadn't done. Like the time they'd been given detention back in fourth-grade, even though the bullies who'd caused them to be late for homeroom had gotten away without punishment. Sometimes, life was very unfair.

Ross led them through the building, and when Steve saw a familiar face sauntering from the opposite direction, he could have groaned aloud. Nat's face had ' _I told you so_ _'_ written all over it.

"For the record, this is what making things worse looks like," she gloated.

"He's alive," Steve pointed out. Not only alive, but unharmed. It wasn't Steve's best-case-scenario outcome, because that would have involved him and Sam making a clean getaway with a Bucky who finally wanted to let them help him, but this outcome… it was the next best thing. Nobody had been hu— killed. Nobody had been killed. The few CIA men who'd been hurt would be back on their feet in no time, with nothing worse than bruises and perhaps a cracked rib or two. Bucharest had not been another Sokovia. Another Lagos.

The windowless security hub was a hive of activity. Nat joined Tony, who was busy making vague promises of 'consequences' to someone on the other end of the phone. When Steve caught Sam's eyes, he saw his own apprehension reflected right back at him.

"Consequences?" Steve asked, when Stark hung up.

Tony Stark was a man who oozed style and confidence out of every pore. At first, Steve had taken it for arrogance. Which, he supposed, it technically was. But underneath that confident, arrogant and—dare he think it?—stylish exterior, was a man who just wanted to do Right. Somewhere along the way, Tony's vision of Right had veered away from Steve's, but that didn't mean Steve no longer cared about his friend's opinion.

"Secretary Ross wants you both prosecuted." Tony shrugged as if it was of no consequence. "I had to give him something."

Tony's words very nearly brought a grin to Steve's face. He held it back, because grinning at this time wasn't exactly appropriate, and would only have cemented his reputation as the crazy one on the team. Did Ross think Steve cared about a prosecution? In 1943, he had defied a direct order, parachuted into hostile territory, fought his way through the Nazi-controlled area and single-handedly stormed a secret Hydra facility, on the very slim chance that his friend might actually have still been alive. He'd done it knowing that if he ever made it back, he'd be facing a court-martial. That it would essentially end his official participation in the war. But that hadn't mattered, just like being prosecuted didn't matter, because _Bucky was alive!_ A Hydra facility, a Bucharest apartment, the gates of Hell… there was nowhere Steve would not go for his friend.

"Not gettin' that shield back, am I?" he quipped.

"Technically it's the government's property," said Nat. She glanced over her shoulder as she strolled after Stark. "Wings, too." Oh, she was just loving this.

"That's cold," said Sam, master of that hurt-puppy look he was so good at.

"Warmer than jail," Stark pointed out.

Sam turned to Steve as the pair of former-Avengers, now UN-lackeys, disappeared after Ross like the good little guard-dogs they were. "Y'know, sometimes I hate that guy."

One of Ross' aides led Steve and Sam into a smaller room off to one side, an office of some sort. Everything here was glass walls and transparency, but Steve wasn't fooled. His time with S.H.I.E.L.D. had been a real eye opener. Only an organisation with something to hide made it look like they had nothing to hide. Glass walls? Transparency? A show. The CIA was secrecy incarnate, just as S.H.I.E.L.D. had been, and it was no more trustworthy for its attempts at open reassurance.

 _Sharon works here._

That darn traitor-voice again. Yeah, Sharon worked for the CIA, but she was different. Steve could see it, every time he got lost in her eyes. Like Peggy, she believed in him. In an America that could be great without losing its freedom. A country that could be proud without sacrificing its integrity. Sharon wasn't in this for secrets and lies, she was in it to put her skills to best use. To make the world a brighter place.

When the aide left Steve and Sam alone, he turned to his friend.

"I'm—"

"Dude, seriously," said Sam, a note of amused warning in his voice. "If the next word out of your mouth is 'sorry', I might just have to punch you. Probably break my fist, but what the hell. You've got no reason to apologise."

"If we're prosecuted—"

"It's not important." Sam shook his head, and with his next words, reaffirmed Steve's belief in his friend's loyalty and generosity. "What's important is that we succeeded. We did what we set out to do. We found Barnes, even if _technically_ it wasn't us that found him. Now that he's here, we stand a chance. This whole 'psychological evaluation' thing they're gonna put him through, it'll show without a doubt that he didn't have any control over the things Hydra made him do. As for a prosecution? I say, try everything once. And to you and me, what's one black mark on the record, right? It's not like it'll make us unemployable in the future. Hell, there's always that ultimate fighting option."

Steve gave his friend a tight smile. "Thanks, Sam. Thanks for having my back, time after time."

"Y'know, if you keep thanking me, I'm going to start feeling insulted."

"Oh?"

"Friends shouldn't have to thank each other. It's an unspoken agreement. Part of the bro-code."

He felt his face rearrange itself into a puzzled frown. "Bro-code?" He was pretty caught up with the present, but every once in a while, someone threw out a phrase or a reference that went right over his head despite his fast reflexes.

"Yeah, you know, the set of rules which governs manly friendships. The very foundations upon which said friendships are built. First rule, you never look at your friend's girl. Second rule, you never date your friend's ex. Third rule, friends don't have to thank each other for being awesome friends. Fourth rule, if a friend's worried about something that's not normally there, it's okay to look as long as you don't touch. Fifth rule—"

"I get it," Steve interrupted, and Sam gave him a small grin.

"Might wanna add that one to your notebook."

A suited man opened the door and stuck his head into the room. "Captain Rogers? Mr Stark would like to speak to you in private."

"Better hurry," Sam said, pulling out an office chair and sinking into it. "We certainly don't want to keep _Mister_ Stark waiting."

Steve shook his head as he followed the suit out of the room. "Could I possibly request a favour?" he asked the guy.

The man's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Ah, sure, I guess."

"Could you get my friend a sandwich? He get really sarcastic when he's missed a meal."

o - o - o - o - o

His memories were gone. For the first time since he'd started writing them down, he didn't know where they were. The only memories he had left now were the memories in his head, and as he waited for fate to deal him the next crappy hand, he closed his eyes and tried to bring them all back into focus.

 _Christmas_ _… Charlie running in the snow… Mary-Ann liked red ribbons in her hair… Steve was actually a pretty good catcher… Bingo used to wake me up every morning… Dum Dum had a thing for Lizzie, and she had a thing for him… Wells liked sunflower seeds… I don't drop my damn elbow… Carrot's girl was called Samantha… Steve saved me in Austria… Islay is an excellent malt… Dernier threatened us with mouldy cheese… Steve really liked people called 'James' being on his team… I couldn't draw an apple to save my life…_

 _Oh God, what if people are reading them right now?_

The thought was enough to bring a cold sweat to his skin and a shiver to his body. Those memories were _his._ They were private. And he'd written them down because he was afraid of losing them again. Now, they were in the hands of the CIA. _Strangers_ would be reading his deepest thoughts, his darkest secrets. They'd be analysing his words, judging his actions, putting their hands all over the pages of his mind. It wasn't right. A man's thoughts should be his alone, to share with the people he chose. The people who had proven themselves trustworthy. It was one thing for his memories to be sent back to Steve, in the event of anything happening to Bucky, but quite another to have _strangers_ looking at them.

"Hello, Mr Barnes."

Bucky glanced up when a quiet voice interrupted his memories. For one split second he felt panic shoot through him like lightning. If he was hearing voices again…

But no. There was a man in the room with him, a man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase and looking very professional. The Soldier knew what this was. _Interrogation_. Pity this wasn't one of those cheesy cop shows. There should have been two people doing the interrogation; a good cop, and a bad cop. Which cop was the man in the suit? Maybe he was both. Maybe you didn't need a good cop and a bad cop if you had them rolled into one.

The Soldier knew how to deal with interrogation, and Bucky took his cues from Hydra's slumbering weapon. He fixed his gaze on the glass-like ceiling of his cell, and ignored the man in the suit. It wasn't difficult; with the glare of his cell light reflecting off the glass walls, he could barely even see the guy.

Where was Steve? Was he near? Was he in another cell, like this one? Was he talking to a good-bad cop of his own? What about Steve's friend? Bucky knew almost nothing about the guy, except that once he'd thrown him off a helicarrier. Must be one hell of a friend, to be sticking his neck out again. Kinda like how Steve had stuck his neck out for Bucky, in Austria. Without Steve, he never would've made it out of that hell-hole. Never would have made it back to the Allied camp in Italy.

 _Flash._

 _"Hey, how are you holding up?"_

 _The impromptu camp was in darkness out of necessity. Bucky could no longer see the column of smoke that marked the place where the Hydra facility had been blown into tiny little pieces, but just knowing that column of smoke was out there, far in the distance, made the pain inside him a little more tolerable. Whatever the Nazis had been building there, they would make no more of it. They would work no more POWs to death. There would be no more needles._

 _He shivered, and tried to peer into his friend_ _'s face. He could feel Steve beside him, but it was too dark to make out anything but a blurred outline of his friend. His very large, very strong, very athletic friend. This was going to take one hell of an adjustment period._

 _"I'm fine," he lied, and pulled some of his body weight off the gun across his raised knees, which was currently keeping him propped up against a tree trunk._

 _"You're a terrible liar, Buck."_

 _"Yeah." It wasn't the first time he'd heard that. Not even the first time since being posted to the front lines. "But I'm alive, thanks to you. And there are guys in worse shape than me."_

 _He wasn_ _'t sure if that was true, either. Some of the POWs had been worked past exhaustion, some were injured, sick, but none had been on the table. At least, none had left the table_ alive _. As far as Bucky knew, he was the first to ever come back from the isolation room, but right now he felt like he_ _'d left a part of himself back there, strapped down to that cold metal gurney. His body ached. Not in the same way it ached after a forced march, or a day spent digging foxholes. He couldn't even describe how it ached, because he'd never felt anything like this before. It was a constant dull pain, and it was everywhere, even inside his head._

 _"Y'know," said Steve, in a wheedling, placating kinda voice, "there's room on that tank—"_

 _"No way," Bucky interrupted. He wasn't gonna hitch a ride like some damn diva. He had two perfectly fine, aching legs, and he could still draw breath into his lungs. For as long as those two things held true, he would walk. Hydra may have beaten him, but they hadn't broken him. He still had his pride._

 _Steve knew better than to push the matter._ _"Alright. But do me a favour and stick close to me, okay?"_

 _Bucky nodded, then let his head fall back against the supportive tree._ _"But do_ me _a favour? Don_ _'t set too fast a pace."_

 _Flash._

"I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you," the soft-spoken voice of the suited man interrupted. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Loaded question. He ignored it, because what would the guy do if he said, _'yes, I do mind'_? Stand? Carry out his so-called evaluation on his feet? Why were they even doing this? They had his memories. Why didn't they just read his notebooks and get on with their judgement? Why did they pretend that they cared about his state of mind when their hit-squad hadn't care about his state of body?

It was a show. It didn't matter what he said. Their 'evaluation' would show only one thing; that Bucky Barnes was a danger to society. That he needed to be locked away forever for not only his own good, but the good of the world. A couple of years ago, he might even have agreed with that sentiment. Now, he knew himself better. He knew the kid he'd been, the young man he'd grown into, the soldier he'd become, the friendships he'd shared, the torture he'd gone through, the sacrifices he'd made… and he knew he wasn't a danger. Not anymore. France had proved that. Geneva had proved it. Bucharest had proved it.

"Your first name is James?"

 _Not even my mom calls me James._

"I'm not here to judge you," the man in the suit lied. "I just want to ask you a few questions."

 _Ask me if I killed anyone recently. Ask me if I bombed a building in Vienna. Hook me up to one of those polygraph things Agent Mulder is so fond of and watch me clear myself._

"Do you know where you are, James?"

 _I_ _'m everywhere. I'm in New York. I'm on the Cyclone at Coney Island, sitting next to my best friend who's about to throw up. I'm at a boxing match, watching the world lightweight champion get K.O.'d in six. I'm on the front lines, setting up the barracks tent with the rest of the 107th. I'm in a mine in France, listening to the world's worst case of parenting. I'm in Azzano, watching a Hydra tank open fire on my friends—and my enemies. I'm on a table in Austria. I'm in England, in a pub, watching the human walrus trying to snag a girl. I'm on a mountainside in Switzerland, ready to ride the world's most terrifying zipwire. I'm in Geneva, listening to some woman call me a hero. I'm in Bucharest, teaching a couple of kids how to speak French, because that's the sort of mad world I live in._

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

"My name is Bucky," he said, his voice coming out croaky because nobody had thought to give him a drink of water since taking him into custody. Wasn't that against some sort of law about the treatment of prisoners? If the man in the suit wanted to help, let him start with that.

"Tell me, Bucky, you've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

That had to be just about the stupidest question he'd ever heard. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"You feel that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop."

 _Wow, putting words in my mouth much? For someone who isn_ _'t here to judge me, he sounds awfully judgemental. But sure, why don't we start with the horrors of being attacked, shot at, chased, threatened, restrained, driven across five borders and not offered a single glass of water? All we need now is a few needles, and it'll be Hydra all over again._

"Don't worry," the man in the suit said. There was an ominous, arrogant tone to his voice that set Bucky's nerves on end. "We only have to talk about one."

He didn't get chance to ponder that statement. The lights in the room suddenly went out, plunging the cell into darkness. Normally, the confined dark would have brought some comfort, but this time the comfort was absent because _this wasn_ _'t supposed to be happening._ The CIA had not brought him here to sit him in the dark.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, turning his gaze to the man in the suit. He could see the guy, now that the glare from the light was gone. Now that the only illumination was the dull, flashing emergency lighting. He looked like an ordinary guy. Neatly combed brown hair, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, expensive-looking suit… Bucky could have passed him in the street and not glanced at him twice.

"Why don't we discuss your home?" the man returned. In the darkness of the room, that soft-spoken voice sounded much more menacing. "Not Romania. Certainly not Brooklyn—no." The man reached into his briefcase, pulled out something and held it up for him to see. It was a notebook, not unlike the ones Bucky used to record his memories, only this one was red, with a gold star on the front. "I mean your real home."

Bucky didn't recognise the book, but the Soldier did. He woke and writhed beneath Bucky's skin, bringing with him a flood of fear and adrenaline and a deep, cold memory of painful familiarity. The chair… this was something to do with the chair. The chair and the book went together, and together they meant _agony_.

The man in the suit stood and stepped forward, removing his glasses as he opened the book to a pre-marked page. He said a word that tore into Bucky's mind, opening a door to the inside of his thoughts.

"Longing." _For home, for friends, for family, for the pain to stop, for an end to the cold, for Hydra_ _'s dream of a perfect world._

The door was open, and another word stepped through it.

"Rusted." _It spread like rust through his mind, pulling up old instructions, old memories, old ways of thinking, corrupting and choking his thoughts._

"Stop," he heard himself say, but he was too busy trying to hold back the rust that was spreading, working its way deeper inside him, trying to reach the place where the Soldier lay dormant.

"Seventeen." _The year he_ _'d been born. A word that wedged open the door in his mind and waited for what had to come next._

"Stop," he tried again. But the man did not stop. The _words_ did not stop. Bucky could feel everything he was slipping away. He felt both hands turn to fists as he tried to hold on to something. Anything. _Mary-Ann_ _… Charlie… Mom and Dad… Bingo… Steve… Apple pie…_

"Daybreak." _A new day. A new Mission. A new era for humanity. And the word buried itself inside him, reaching down into the darkness, banishing the shadows, trying to pull the Soldier out of the pit Bucky had forced him into._

This wasn't just pain evasion; now, it was his own survival. Even as the word tried to wake the Soldier, Bucky reached out and tried to get there first, to rouse Hydra's weapon into self-defence. He brushed the hand of his mind against it and grabbed hold, taking some of the aggression, some of the raw strength, into himself. His lips let out a scream that echoed the scream of his muscles as he strained against the metal restraints. He poured everything he had into moving his arm, heard metal screech in complaint as it gave way to his strength.

Then he was free of the chair, and he would _never go back in it!_ The man who was the cause of his current bout of pain was just outside the cell, that book in his hands, a feverish light in his eyes. Bucky drew back his metal fist and smashed it into the glass. The man jumped back, but when the glass didn't shatter, he spoke another word.

"Furnace." _The heat needed to forge the perfect weapon._

And now that weapon was rising, spreading through the open door, burning fingers rifling through his thoughts, pushing away all memory of everything he had been.

"Nine." _The number of times they_ _'d had to put him in the chair when they'd first brought him to Siberia. The number of tries it had taken before the Winter Soldier programming stuck for long enough to be useful._

Again and again he smashed his fist into the glass. It was only glass. Sooner or later it would have to give way. He was stronger than glass. He was… he was…

"Benign." _The fa_ _çade Hydra wore. The reassuring mask they showed to the world, right before they sent in their Asset._

A numbness started to settle into his mind, like the cold of cryo-freeze. _Steve_ _… Mary-Ann… Bingo…_ The thoughts seemed strange. Alien. The names were just names. They had no faces attached. They were identity-less echoes of long ago. He let them go, because keeping hold was too hard. He let them go and focused on the glass, pouring every ounce of concentration and strength into punching it, into breaking through the transparent barrier. It became the only thing in the world.

"Homecoming." _A soldier_ _'s return after a war. The Soldier returning to the people who'd made him._

He didn't even know why he was hitting the glass. But he hit it again, because it seemed important. He was in a cage, and he had to get out of it. He'd been in many cages before. Cages in cold places. Cages in hot places. Cages in which he was hurt, in which he dealt pain to others, in which he was kept for his own safety. But there had been no cage like this one. This was a new cage, and he had to get out of it. Get out and kill the man with the book before… before… he didn't know. But that didn't matter. He didn't need to know. All he needed was an order to obey, and this was it. _Get out. Kill. Rest._

"One." _Because he was the first._

The glass began to buckle. He felt it weaken beneath his strikes. He lashed out again, again, again, and the door finally gave way, wrenched off its hinges under the force of his sustained attack. He stepped through, landing on the floor, preparing to attack. A face flashed through his mind, short-cropped blond hair and troubled blue eyes. But with the next word, it was gone.

"Freight car."

The Soldier pushed himself up and, in the darkness of the room, performed a tactical threat analysis. There was only one person present; the man who had spoken his words. The one who now commanded him. Patiently, he awaited his new orders.

"Soldat?" his new handler queried.

"Ready to comply," he responded.

The fear and caution disappeared from his handler's face. "Mission report, December 16, 1991."

For a long moment the Soldier said nothing. Why was he being asked for this? He had given that report long ago. But, if his handler wanted it…

"Mission successful."

His handler let out a vexed hiss. "What happened to the others? To the volunteers? The ones who were given the serum you stole from the man named Stark?"

He saw their faces in his mind. Five of them. They were not like him. They did not take orders well. Disobeyed easily. They did not understand what it meant to be _One_.

"After their initial training, they were placed in cryogenic stasis units."

"Where?"

"On the base."

The man drew a small notepad and a pencil from his pocket, and held them out. "You will write down the exact co-ordinates of your base."

The Soldier stared at the notepad and pencil. He'd seen this before. Turning his head, he listened. There was soft music echoing down the hallway. He could hear it, a man's voice singing about the sea, and the stars and the moon. He wanted to follow it. To find out where it was coming from. Why it should seem so familiar to him. But his handler was blocking his way.

"Soldier!" the man said sharply. "Write down the co-ordinates of the base where you took the serum you stole."

He reached out to take the pad and the pencil. He didn't want to write the co-ordinates down. He wanted to write something else, but he didn't know what. And he had orders. He could not disobey the one who commanded him, so he wrote down the co-ordinates and waited for his next instruction.

"I have one more task for you, Soldier," his handler said grimly.


	19. Steve, Embarrassed

Running To You

 _19\. Steve, Embarrassed_

 _"Helen Johnson?"_

 _Bucky_ _'s suggestion was met with an unimpressed twist of Steve's lips._

 _"_ _She has that really annoying donkey laugh."_

 _"_ _Katie Sinclair?"_

 _"_ _She's too tall."_

 _"_ _We could always get some more newspapers for your shoes. Give you an overnight growth spurt."_

 _Steve_ _'s cheeks flushed a guilty pink colour, and he issued his friend a half-hearted glare. "I have those for insulation. My soles are kinda thin and paper keeps in the heat."_

 _"_ _Riiight." Bucky looked over at his friend. Steve was lying on his bed, arms folded behind his head, doing his best to appear focused on the ceiling. The apartment was quiet._ Too _quiet. Once it had been filled with Sarah Rogers_ _' cheery humming; now it stood in silence._

 _"_ _Candy O'Malley?"_

 _Steve shook his head._ _"I don't like her name."_

 _Bucky let out a long, slow sigh and tipped back on the creaky wooden chair beside Steve_ _'s bedroom desk. "Y'know, for a guy who doesn't have a lot of options left at this point, you're awfully picky. Hey, what about Becky Shaw?"_

 _"_ _I can't ask Becky Shaw."_

 _"_ _Why not?"_

 _"_ _Because_ you _went out with her for a few weeks a couple of years ago._ _"_

 _"_ _So?"_

 _Steve finally looked over at his friend and gave him a humourless grin._ _"So now she hates you. If I went with her, I couldn't hang out with you and your date. I probably wouldn't even be able to say hello to you without getting the evil eye from her, and I'd rather not have to spend the night avoiding my best friend."_

 _It was a good job Steve_ _'s desk was empty of anything sharp or heavy, because Bucky got a real strong urge to throw something at the guy, best friend or not. God help the women of New York if Steve ended up being as picky about them as he was high-school girls. Still, there was one last suggestion that Steve could not shrug off so easily. Bucky gave his friend the ol' sneaky side-eye._

 _"_ _Y'know, I bet Mary-Ann would jump at the chance to go with you."_

 _"_ _I can't ask Mary-Ann. She's your sister."_

 _"_ _What's wrong with my sister?" He put more of a defensive tone in his voice than was strictly necessary, making it_ perfectly clear _to his friend that his sister was the best choice and if Steve found even a single thing wrong with her, there would be terrible consequences for him._

 _"_ _Nothing's wrong with her, she's great," Steve said quickly. "But I've known her since she was what, six years old? She feels like a sister to me too, Buck."_

 _"_ _Steve, it's a dance. You don't have to marry her at the end of it."_

 _"_ _I know. But I don't wanna give her the wrong idea." Steve took a deep breath which inflated his thin chest by no more than an inch. "I think I'll just not go."_

 _Once again, Bucky looked around for something to throw at his friend. Steve had never been the most outgoing of guys, but these last three months without his mom had hit him hard. He went to school, he did his work, excelled at it like always, but the little spark of life inside him seemed to have dimmed. At weekends, or after school, it often took Bucky an hour or more to coax or wrestle his friend out of the house, and he wasn_ _'t always successful. Steve could be awful stubborn, when he got his heels dug in._

 _"_ _Alright," he relented. "We don't have to go. We can do something else. Watch a movie? The cinema will be real quiet. Or we could borrow my dad's car, take a road trip."_

 _Steve sat upright, his blue eyes full of defiance._ _"Buck, you can't miss Senior Prom. It's the last one you'll ever get to go to. Just because I'm not going, doesn't mean you have to miss out."_

 _"_ _You remember who you went to Junior Prom with?" Bucky asked his friend. But he didn't wait for an answer. "Oh wait, you didn't go to that one, either. But you made me promise to go without you, so I did."_

 _"_ _And you had a great time!"_

 _"_ _Yeah, but it wasn't the same without my best friend there. And I know that this year, if I'm there thinking about you being alone here, I won't have a good time at all. So, here's the deal; if you don't go, I don't go. I let you have your way before, but now it's my turn. I'm not leaving my best friend behind a second time."_

 _He folded his arms across his chest and waited. Steve could be one hell of a stubborn guy at times, but he was about to learn that there were some things on which Bucky Barnes would not take_ _'no' for an answer._

 _"_ _I… guess I could ask Mary-Ann," Steve sighed at last. "As long as she understands there will be no dancing. I can't dance."_

 _"_ _You don't know that for sure. You've never even tried."_

 _Steve shook his head._ _"I left it too late to learn."_

 _"_ _Yeah," Bucky agreed, in the driest tone of voice he could summon, "just the other day I heard a bunch of kids refer to you as 'Old Man Rogers.'"_

 _"_ _Y'know, you're not as funny as you think."_

 _Bucky grinned at his friend._ _"I'm hilarious and you know it. Trust me pal, this year's Prom is going to be great. I hear the school's even hiring a photographer to take pictures for the yearbook."_

 _Steve_ _'s eyes gained a familiar panicked look. "I hate having my picture taken. Especially in a tux. Bow-ties make my head look tiny."_

 _"_ _Then we'll get you a small bow-tie. It's all relative, pal."_

o - o - o - o - o

Bucky opened his eyes and was met with a pounding in his skull. His head ached, his arm ached, it hurt to breathe and his mouth was dry. He pushed himself up from the world's most uncomfortable bed and… couldn't move. A glance to the side showed him why. This wasn't a bed. He'd passed out against some sort of vice machine, inside which his metal arm was tightly caught. An experimental tug, which made his chest muscles ache even more, told him he wasn't going anywhere.

 _What the hell..?_

At that moment, it all came tumbling back. He closed his eyes as his pulse raced and memories came crashing into his mind, a head-on collision of _past_ and _present_. The glass cell. The man in the suit. That damn book. The Soldier stirring within him. And the words! He'd always forgotten the words, because Hydra's mind-suppression chair had wiped them away at the start of each new mission. Now, there was no chair. He could hear the words inside his ears, picture them in his mind. They sat there and they taunted him, laughing wickedly at whatever they'd made him do.

 _What the hell did I do this time?_

"Hey, Cap."

Bucky's head jerked up. Cap? That meant Steve. Steve was here? But… how? Steve was a criminal now, just like Bucky. Flying-tin-can-suit-guy had said so. But this place… he looked around. It didn't look like any jail. Did that mean he was out of the CIA's hands? That Steve was safe, too?

Two pairs of footsteps approached, and Bucky tried to push himself up despite the ache of his muscles. With his arm firmly clamped in place, the best he could manage was a half-sit, half-slump on whatever uncomfortable seat they'd put him on.

This time, when Steve appeared, it really _was_ Steve. Not Captain America, but the guy Bucky had known since they were nine years old. The relief almost brought a bubble of laughter to his lips, but the look in Steve's blue eyes told him this was no time for laughing. Steve's dark-skinned friend, the guy Bucky had thrown off the helicarrier back in Washington—Sam, he thought he recalled reading on the internet—was there too, looking equally as worried as Steve. Couldn't really blame the guy. They'd just seen the Winter Soldier again. But how had they gotten him back so quickly? The last time he was the Winter Soldier it took weeks for that programming to fully fade, for Bucky to feel like a real person again.

"Steve—" Bucky said, and then stopped. What could he say? He'd told his best friend that his days of being the Winter Soldier were behind him, and yet here he was, facing another period of trying to remember and living with the regret of whatever he'd done whilst his body was out of his own control. All because he was too weak to resist.

"Which Bucky am I talking to?" Steve asked.

Bucky looked up at his friend. There was a hardness on Steve's face that he wasn't accustomed to seeing there. Whatever mess the Winter Soldier had just made, it must've been bad, if Steve was preparing himself to do what had to be done. To stop the Winter Soldier before he could hurt anyone else. And part of Bucky _wanted_ his friend to do that. If he could be controlled so easily, if Hydra's weapon could be unleashed with so little effort… how could he ever be around people again? How could he ever be around Steve, or Irina and Ion, or the people he worked with in the warehouse?

But Steve had risked everything to help him. Steve had broken the law, and gone up against his friends, and refused to fight. Bucky owed him something… but how could he convince his friend that this really was him, and not the Soldier Hydra had made him? Instantly, the memory of that day discussing dates for Senior Prom rose again inside his mind.

"Your mom's name is Sarah," he offered, and the sound of Mrs Rogers' humming buzzed in his ears. But Steve didn't look convinced. Fair enough; Captain America's mom's name was probably easily discovered. A smile tugged at Bucky's lips, that bubble of laughter finally coming out as he thought of something only someone who'd known Steve well could possibly know. "You used to put newspapers in your shoes."

Relief flooded onto Steve's face. "Can't read that in a museum."

"And just like that we're s'posed to be cool?" asked Sam. Bucky wanted to hate him, but he couldn't. If their positions were reversed, he would've been skeptical, too. Besides, _someone_ needed to be cautious. The CIA had tried for caution but they'd underestimated the Winter Soldier. They thought their restraints would hold him. Thought their glass cage would be enough. God, how wrong they'd been.

"What'd I do?" Bucky asked. Everything that had happened after the Soldier had woken was a blank, but judging by the throbbing pain in his head, it wasn't a _pleasant_ blank. He doubted the guy in the suit had brought out the Winter Soldier for a few rounds of beers and poker.

"Enough," said Steve.

 _Something bad. It must_ _'ve been something bad, or Steve wouldn't be trying to protect me from the truth._

"Oh God," he groaned, "I knew this would happen. Everything Hydra put inside me is still there. All he had to do was say the goddamn words." For two years Bucky had lived with the Soldier, thinking of him as nothing more than a dormant personality which sometimes woke in times of concern or duress. Another layer of instinct, one honed for combat, an occasional resource to be tapped into when he needed to channel a little aggression that he couldn't find himself. He'd thought it took Hydra's cold metal chair to bring the Soldier out, but now he knew about the words… the Soldier might be dormant again now, but if he was ever triggered, ever woken, he would be completely out of Bucky's control.

"Who was he?" Steve asked.

Bucky's head hurt too much to shake it, so I croaked out, "I dunno." Whoever the guy was, he definitely wasn't one of the Hydra soldiers he'd encountered before. Maybe someone from the upper echelon, like Pierce? Who else could know about the Winter Soldier?

 _Everyone, thanks to the internet._

"People are dead," Steve accused, and Bucky felt his insides twist, his metal hand pull into a fist. "The bombing, the set-up… the doctor did all that, just to get ten minutes with you. I need you to do better than 'I don't know.'"

He let his gaze become unfocused as he tried to think back. He couldn't remember everything that had happened, but those moments when the Soldier had first awoken… there had been a flashing light. The book with the golden star. The quiet echo of music. A notepad and a pencil. Co-ordinates he'd written down. "He wanted to know about Siberia. Where I was kept. He wanted to know exactly where."

"Why would he need to know that?"

And suddenly, it all came rushing back. That night in December. The car. The man and the woman he'd killed… Howard Stark, and his wife. _Oh God_ _…_ He'd known Howard back in the 1940s, but the Soldier hadn't recognised him. The pair had watched him with the rest of the dead in his sleep, but he was still working his way up to the present; he hadn't found them… until now.

Somehow, Stark had got his hands on—or perhaps even manufactured—super-soldier serum like those that had been given to Steve, and Bucky. And Hydra had sent the Soldier to collect it, so they could make a newer, stronger batch of Winter Soldiers. But Hydra had miscalculated the effects of the serum. The new super-soldiers weren't just strong, they were aggressive. So aggressive that they didn't listen to orders. Hydra had tried to program them, as they'd programmed the Winter Soldier into Bucky, but even that hadn't been fully effective. Eventually they'd been put into cryostasis, to preserve them until a solution to their aggression could be found. To the best of Bucky's knowledge, that hadn't happened.

He looked up at his friend. There was no easy way to give this news, so he just came right out and said it. "Because I'm not the only Winter Soldier."

The tension in the air could've been cut with a knife. Steve looked at Sam. Sam looked at Steve. Bucky was just glad that for once nobody was looking at him. Then, Steve spoke.

"I believe you, Buck. And I need to know more. I wanna let you out of that vice, but first, I need to know that you're going to stick around for longer than five minutes. No more running, okay?"

Bucky nodded, met his friend's eyes. "No more running."

When the pressure on the vice was released, Bucky was finally able to sit up straight and take a deep breath. It didn't stop the aching across his chest and shoulders, and it didn't make his mouth any less parched, but it was a massive improvement. For the first time in over twenty-four hours, he wasn't somebody's prisoner. He was free, and he had his best friend's trust. All he had to do now was make sure he didn't screw _that_ up, too.

"Who were they?" Steve asked, when Bucky had stretched his shoulders and regained a little of his composure.

"Their most elite death squad," Bucky replied. Now that the memories had started coming back, there was no stopping them. He could remember every moment of that mission with near-perfect clarity, from his attack on the car to his return to Siberia. The men and women who'd been given the serum, they were volunteers. The thought made his metal hand curl again. These people had _volunteered_ to become the monsters Hydra had forced onto Bucky. "More kills than anyone in Hydra history… and that was before the serum."

"They all turn out like you?" asked Sam. He was going for a casual pose, but Bucky could see the tension in his shoulders, the concern in his brown eyes. He couldn't blame the guy.

"Worse," he shot back quickly. _Much worse._

"The doctor," said Steve, "could he control them?"

Control? Maybe. With the right words. Hydra wouldn't be stupid enough to use the same trigger words on every super-soldier… but the guy had the co-ordinates for the Siberian base, now. He'd find what he needed, there. Even if the mental conditioning on the other five Soldiers wasn't _fully_ effective, there would still be plenty of damage they could do.

"Enough."

"He said he wanted to see an empire fall," Steve sighed.

"With these guys, he could do it," Bucky told him, the memory of one of their training sessions still fresh in his mind. In reality, there had been very little training that needed doing. Even before the serum, the volunteers knew how to fight. Had killed countless times. All Bucky was there for was to test them. To give them a powerful opponent to overcome. Somebody they would have no qualms about hurting because he wasn't a member of their team. "They speak thirty languages, can hide in plain sight; infiltrate, assassinate, destabilise. They could take a whole country down in one night, and you'd never see them coming."

Of course, whether the five Soldiers would ever _return_ after completing their mission was another matter. But maybe that wasn't important to the doctor. Maybe that was why he'd gone for those five, instead of just ordering Bucky to go with him. Bucky had never been a willing participant in the project, and the Winter Soldier was the only control Hydra had ever had over him. But the Winter Soldier was flawed on one very basic level; he could only act according to his programming. He could only follow orders. That was how Bucky had managed to come back, after Washington. There were no orders to follow. The programming began to break down. The Winter Soldier went to sleep, allowing Bucky himself to re-emerge.

But the other five Soldiers… even without their programming to hold them back, they were dangerous Hydra operatives. Underneath the trigger words, they were stone-cold killers. With those five on the loose, the collateral damage would be huge, and they wouldn't stop at killing authority figures. To them, anybody would be fair game. Anybody who opposed what Hydra stood for.

Sam moved closer to Steve, turning his back to Bucky so that they could confer quietly. Bucky tried not to listen, but it wasn't exactly easy. Enhanced hearing couldn't be turned off like a TV.

"Y'know, this would've been a lot easier a week ago."

"If we call Tony—" Steve began.

"Ah, he won't believe us."

"And even if he did—"

"Who knows if the accords would let him help," Sam finished.

"We're on our own." When Bucky glanced up, he saw a very resigned expression on his friend's frowning face. Steve had that look about him. The same look that Bucky had seen in the mirror countless times. The look that said he'd already been dragged through hell once, and now he knew he was going to have to do it again.

"Maybe not," Sam said at last, and Bucky saw the dark man's shoulders shrug. "I know a guy."

The little cogs of Steve's brain had begun turning. Bucky could see it in his friend's eyes. He was coming up with a plan. Some way to stop the doctor before he could reach Siberia. Or, if it was too late for that, some way to stop those five Soldiers before they could break the world.

"Tony's got Wanda confined to the compound," Steve said. "Vision won't help; he's bound by the Accords. But Wanda never signed. And Clint—"

"You wanna drag the guy away from his family?"

" _Want_ to? No. But if these guys are looking to take down Hydra's enemies, then anyone who's ever ranked high in S.H.I.E.L.D. is gonna be a target, and with all S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intel on the net, who knows how safe Barton's safe-house really is?"

"Alright," Sam agreed with a nod. "Five against five. At least that gives us even odds."

"Six," Bucky spoke up, and both men turned to look at him. Had they forgotten how good his hearing was? It wasn't as if they'd even left the room. "Six against five."

"Buck, are you sure you're up to this?" Steve asked, suddenly all frowning concern.

"Yeah." There wasn't a chance in hell he was gonna let his best friend go up against those five trained Hydra killers alone, even if he wasn't technically _alone_. Besides, only he knew where the base was.

Sam wanted to object. Bucky could see it written all over his face. But a nod from Steve was enough to quash those objections, and Bucky very nearly smiled. He hadn't seen many guys willing to argue with Captain America. _Somebody_ had to stick around to push back against Steve from time to time.

"I'll go make some calls," said Sam.

"Be careful out there," Steve warned him. "They're looking for you, too."

"Don't worry, Cap, I'll be careful."

And then Sam was gone, and Bucky was left alone with the guy who'd worn newspaper in his shoes.

o - o - o - o - o

The hum of helicopters overhead was persistent, and they brought back unpleasant memories of wanting to scramble for the trees. Bucky tried to ignore the unease in his stomach. This wasn't France. It wasn't Italy. It wasn't 1943. Those helicopters were not the _Luftwaffe_ , preparing to drop bombs on Allied troops. And there were no trees to escape to.

In the corner of the room, Steve was awfully quiet. He'd done nothing but watch Bucky since Sam had left. Bucky had tried to ignore that too, but it wasn't as easy to ignore your old childhood best friend as it was to ignore helicopters that couldn't see you. Eventually, one of them would have to speak. Bucky decided to go first.

"Is your friend pissed at me for trying to kill him that one time?"

"Technically you tried to kill him twice," Steve pointed out. "You weren't exactly being discriminate when you pulled the steering wheel out of our car and then opened fire on us."

"Oh yeah. Guess I overlooked that one."

"Sam doesn't hold it against you," Steve assured him. "He's a decent guy. He knows what you've been through, and he wants to help."

"Soldier?" Bucky guessed.

"Para-Rescue."

Bucky nodded. Made sense. "What about the rest of your team?"

"Buck, I hardly think this is the time to be delving into my friends' life stories."

A small smile pulled at his mouth. Steve had a very _Steve_ way of misunderstanding things. Hell, the Howling Commandos had gotten _months_ _'_ worth of entertainment teasing him about the meaning of 'fondue.'

"I'm not looking to sit around sharing life stories while your friends braid my hair, Steve," Bucky assured him, which pulled a smile out of Steve, too. "But I need to know what the people I'm fighting beside can do. These guys we're going up against, they're no laughing matter. I'm used to carrying out my missions alone, and now I gotta adapt to fighting in a team again. You don't go into battle without knowing your team's strengths and weaknesses."

"Alright," Steve sighed. He grabbed some sort of container and dragged it over to sit beside Bucky. On his right side, Bucky noticed. Away from the metal arm that had beaten his face into a pulp. "You've already seen Sam in action. He can fight on the ground, but he's best in the sky."

"Siberia won't be easy for him," Bucky said as battle-plans trickled into his head. "The base is a converted missile silo. There's some open space, but not much." Sam would be at a disadvantage, on the ground. Hopefully not _too big_ a disadvantage.

"Clint Barton's an archer," Steve continued. "Best shot I've ever seen."

"Better than me?"

"Yeah. Sorry, man," said Steve, with an apologetic glance.

"I'll believe that when I see it," Bucky scoffed. "Can he fight?"

"If he has to, yeah. He's as handy as Sam at hand-to-hand. And then there's Wanda."

"Is she the one who tried to zap me with a taser, then launched a rocket at me?"

"No, that's Nat. She won't be joining us. When we were asked to sign the Accords, to surrender control of the Avengers to the U.N. Council… well, let's just say that we disagreed on subject of government control."

"I still can't believe _you_ of all people didn't wanna sign." When Steve subjected him to a look of surprise, he elaborated. "Hey, I watch the news. Just because I've been hiding out for the past couple of years doesn't mean I've been living in a hole."

"Really? 'Cos I saw your apartment, Buck."

"Yeah, well, it had electricity," he grumbled, struck by the need to stick up for what had essentially been his home for over a year. "And hot… warm… tepid… water. 'Sides, it was lower profile than the Ritz." He shifted on his makeshift seat, tried to ignore the pity in Steve's eyes. His friend didn't understand. He didn't _deserve_ pity. Not after everything he'd done. There were times when the apartment had felt like a luxury. "Anyway, you were telling me about your team. Wanda, wasn't it?"

Steve sighed. He seemed to do that a lot. Bucky couldn't remember him sighing this much back in the '40s. Not unless Peggy was around, and that was a whole different kinda sighing. More of a head-over-heels schoolboy sigh.

"Right. Wanda. That's… complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it for me." He could almost taste Steve's reticence. "What, you're dating her or something?"

"What? No!" His friend's eyes went wide. "God, no. In a lotta ways, she's like the little sister on the team. When I say 'complicated' I don't mean it's complicated for _me_ , but… well… Winter Soldiers weren't the only weapons Hydra made."

Bucky winced in sympathy. "They experimented on her, too?"

"Yeah. Kinda."

"Y'know, your cageyness does nothing for my nerves."

"Sorry. It's just… at first, Wanda wasn't exactly an unwilling victim."

"She _volunteered_?"

Steve mustn't've liked the scowl Bucky could feel forming on his face, because he rushed to the defence of his teammate. "She was just a kid, Buck. She was in a dark place and out for vengeance. She thought Hydra could give her the power she needed. She didn't understand the cost that came with that power. Since then, she's learned a lot. And she's a sweet kid, despite everything she's been through. Just… try not to judge her too harshly. We all did dumb things when we were young. We all made mistakes."

He still didn't like the thought of fighting beside someone who'd actually been mad enough to _volunteer_ for Hydra's special brand of Frankenscience, but what choice did he have? Besides, this was _Steve_. If Steve said the girl was okay, then as far as Bucky was concerned, she was okay.

"What'd Hydra do to her?" he asked. "Laser-eyes? Invisibility?"

"Telekinesis. She can move things with her mind and create barriers out of thin air," Steve explained, when Bucky focused a blank expression onto his face. "Also, she has some power of mental manipulation. Basic mind control."

"Great, mind control. One of my favourite things." Suddenly, this whole 'call in the cavalry' idea wasn't sounding so sensible.

"Don't worry, she won't use it on you."

"Never more than once, anyway," Bucky told his friend. And if that sounded threatening… well, it was a threat that needed to be made. The next person to try messing around with his head would get themselves a fist full of Winter Soldier. "What about Sam's friend?"

Steve grasped at the change in subject like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. "I dunno. Guess we'll find out if Sam's able to contact him."

"Fair enough. What about your green friend?"

For a moment, Steve looked puzzled. Then, Bucky's words clicked into place. "You mean Doctor Banner?"

"That thing's a _doctor_?" That was pretty messed up. Even more messed up than Bucky himself.

"Yeah. Most of the time, anyway. I s'pose you could say he's a little like you. He has… identity issues." Identity issues? You had to love Steve for his ability to see the best in everyone. "I don't know where Banner is, unfortunately."

"That's a shame," said Bucky, as the memory of a picture of the huge green thing smashing a giant flying alien into the tarmac slid through his mind. "We really could've used his help on this."

And then, they ran out of things to say. The safe topic of _everybody else_ was over. For the past two years, Bucky had known that one day, he'd meet Steve again. He'd just thought he'd have longer to prepare for this moment. Something to say other than, _'Hey, so how've you been since I tried to kill you?'_ Maybe Steve felt the same. Maybe that was why he sat in silence, feigning dogged interest in one of his fingernails.

"I gotta ask something," Steve said at last.

"Just one thing? If I were you, I'd've asked a billion questions already. At _least_."

A tight smile slid across Steve's lips. "There'll be time enough for questions later, once we've stopped the doctor from waking the other Winter Soldiers. But this… it's been eating at me for the past two years."

"Shoot," Bucky shrugged. Wouldn't wanna see his best friend eaten up.

Steve took a deep breath. "After Washington, after you pulled me from the river… why'd you run?"

"Because I didn't know who I was or what I was," he replied, opting for total honesty. "Memories started coming back, and they were strange and confusing. I needed to get away from everything and sort my head out. Try to figure things out. And part of me was afraid to face you, after what I did to you."

"And now?" Steve asked, because he could be one hell of an attentive son of a bitch at times.

This time, the deep breath was Bucky's. How could he possibly explain two years' worth of feelings in anything less than two years? There was still so much guilt attached to his soul, so much sadness and regret and darkness that no light could penetrate. He'd started to make some headway, with his notebooks, but those were gone now. He had no written words to fall back on. There was only himself, and the self that he had felt pretty damn small.

"Now," he said, "I dunno." He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then tucked his hair behind his ear so he could better see his friend. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I tried to kill you. Damn near did. I hurt your friends, too."

"As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to forgive. The person who tried to kill me… that wasn't you. It was something Hydra made you into. And in the end, you proved stronger."

Stronger? No. Steve had no idea how weak his friend was. If he'd truly been strong, he would have been able to stop himself sooner. The man in Moscow would still be alive. So would the women in Paris, those archaeologists in Mexico, and dozens of other people he'd killed through the decades. If he was stronger, the doctor wouldn't have been able to use those words to control him. But how could he say all that to Steve without sounding self-pitying? Steve couldn't fully understand, because even when he looked at the Winter Soldier, he saw his old childhood friend.

"See?" he said at last. "That's why I don't deserve a friend like you."

"Sure you do. You don't need to ask for forgiveness, and I don't need to give it. There's nothing to forgive. It's part of the bro-code."

"Bro-code?" he scoffed. "You just made that up."

"Not true. Sam's told me all about it." Steve gave him a warm, genuine smile. "Seriously though, please don't take off again. Now that I've found you, I want to help you. You don't have to run from me anymore."

"Run from you? Is that what you think I was doing?" Steve really was one hell of a guy, but at times, he could be pretty dumb. "I wasn't running _from_ you, Steve. I was running _to_ you. I just… y'know, had to take a few detours along the way. Re-learn how to walk, because I sure as hell wasn't crawling back on my hands and knees."

As if someone had flipped a switch, the tension drained out of Steve's body. Relief crept into his eyes, two years' worth of fear and doubt trickling away. "You always _were_ stubborn. Remember how you refused to get a ride out of Austria on that tank?"

"I remember."

He pushed himself up, stretching legs that had been in one position for too long, working some life back into his limbs. Now, he could remember the escape from Austria. The tank he'd refused to ride. And he could remember trying to fix Steve up with a date for Senior Prom. He had those memories, but he couldn't write them down, because his memory books were gone, and he could feel their absence like a dull ache inside him.

"Something wrong?" Steve asked, his blue eyes full of concern.

Bucky ceased his pacing, smoothed the frown from his face, stopped his metal hand from clenching and twitching at the thought of his missing books.

"I want my memories back," he said, knowing that he sounded like a sulky child, unable to do a damn thing about it.

"Give it time. After what Hydra did to you, you can't expect them to return overnight."

"No, you don't understand." He tapped his temple with the fingers of his right hand. "The memories I have up here are fine, for the moment. But I wrote them down. All of them. Everything I remembered about you, my past, the war, Hydra, the missions they sent me on… everything I experienced over the past two years. I kept them in a bag so I could take them with me if I had to leave in a hurry, and now the CIA have them and I want them back."

Understanding dawned in Steve's eyes, some of that previously relieved tension sliding back in. "Was there anything in there that the CIA really shouldn't see?"

"Uh, yeah, my whole life?"

"No, I mean, anything like the co-ordinates to any top-secret Hydra facilities?"

Bucky pushed aside his anxiety and tried to think back to all the things he'd written down, recalling the missions, the faces, the things they'd done to his body and his mind. Finally, he shook his head. "I don't think so. Just a bunch of friends I lost in the war, a family who're long dead, and the people Hydra sent me to kill. And, y'know, maybe some vague details about the chair."

"The chair?"

"The chair they made me sit in to erase my memories."

"Jeez, Buck—"

"It's fine," he said, cutting his friend off before the pity could start again. More pity that he didn't deserve. "Leave it."

"Alright," Steve acquiesced. "Consider it left." He stroked his chin with his thumb, his eyes becoming unfocused for a moment. "I think I can get your memories back."

Bucky shook his head. Steve might be _good_ , but not even he could storm the CIA to recover a bunch of books. "Don't even think about it. It's too dangerous for you to go back there. Flying-tin-can-suit-guy said you're a criminal now."

"You mean, War Machine," Steve corrected, a very amused smile on his face.

"Whatever."

"I wasn't planning on going back. I'm not _that_ crazy." Suddenly, a pink flush bloomed on Steve's cheeks. Very slight, but Bucky's eyes _were_ super-enhanced. "I err, know someone. On the inside."

At once, the urge to tease his friend rose within him, some deeply ingrained instinct that had never gone away. "Oh? And would this 'someone' happen to be a pretty young woman who might be amenable to Captain America's persuasive charms?"

Steve tried for a scowl. It was made less effective by the blush on his cheeks and the familiar sparkle in his eyes. "It's not like that. Sharon sees more than the uniform, when she looks at me."

"I bet she does."

"Do you have to grin like that? It makes me feel dirty."

"I'm not grinning," he lied. He suspected the grin plastered to his face wouldn't be leaving any time soon. God, how he'd missed teasing his best friend! Or, teasing _any_ friend, for that matter. "Seriously, I'm happy for you. I mean, happy that you know someone on the inside. Of the CIA. So, where's she from, what does she do, how did you meet and does she know you can't dance?"

Fortunately for Steve, and unfortunately for Bucky, Sam picked that moment to return. He took one look at the blush on Steve's cheeks and the grin on Bucky's face, and let out a dazzling white smile.

"I see I missed a conversation about Sharon."

Steve cleared his throat, suddenly all professionalism and etiquette. "Did you manage to contact the others?"

"Yeah. Barton's sympathetic. He's gonna head to the compound and spring Wanda." Sam appeared to be trying for professionalism too, but there was laughter in his dark eyes that widened Bucky's smirk. Some things never changed, and apparently teasing Steve about girls was a time-honoured tradition now.

"What about your friend?"

"Oh, I wouldn't call him a _friend_ , exactly," Sam evaded. "I mean, we only met once. Briefly. Had a bit of an… introduction. But I managed to speak to him, and he's game too."

"Who is he?" asked Bucky. "No wait, let me guess; shooting-lasers-from-his-eyes-guy?"

"His name's Scott Lang," said Sam. "And he's a thief."

"Huh," said Steve. And if Bucky had to describe the expression on his friend's face right then, it would have been 'carefully blank.'

"Not the bad kind of thief," Sam hurried on. "A real Robin Hood type. He got sent down for exposing some crooked dealings in the company he worked for. Hacked into a system that was allegedly unhackable. Transferred a lot of money back into the bank accounts that deserved it."

"I don't know if I mentioned this earlier," said Bucky, "but these Winter Soldiers aren't actually computers. The only way we're going to be able to hack them to death is if we use axes. Does he have an axe? Axes for hands, maybe?"

"Y'know," said Sam as an aside to Steve, "you never told me your old buddy was a sarcastic tool."

"Weapon," Bucky corrected him. "Sarcastic weapon."

"Sam, much as I appreciate your friend's support, he _does_ know this is going to be a combat-heavy mission, right?" said Steve, all concern and worry again. Even Bucky's grin had faded over the thought of bringing a computer geek to a Winter Soldier death-match.

"Yeah. And admittedly, he's not big on violence. But he's gonna be the ace up our sleeve. Uh, literally."

"How so?"

"Well," said Sam, preparing himself for a loooot of explaining. "You ever hear of a guy called Hank Pym?"


	20. Old Times, New Team

Running To You

 _20\. Old Times, New Team_

With trembling hands, Bucky thumbed through the pages of his _Family_ book. His spidery scrawl was still there. Nothing had been erased. Nothing had been censored. His family were safe. Mary-Ann and Charlie and Janet were still hidden in plain sight in those pages, along with Mom and Dad, and sometimes Steve, and Bingo too. He put the book away and brought out _Friends_ , turning the pages, scanning the words, fixing Carrot and Wells and Dum Dum into his mind once more. For the first time since Bucharest, that aching hole inside him had been filled. His memories were finally back in his own hands, and he itched to write again. About his flight from Bucharest. About finding Steve. About Siberia, and the other Winter Soldiers. About the very uncomfortable night he, Steve and Sam had spent attempting to sleep in a very small Volkswagen Beetle because they hadn't dared check into a motel. Then again, perhaps he might leave that last memory out of the books…

Steve—or rather, Captain America—joined him, taking a seat beside him on the tarmac of the parking deck, resting back against the ancient Beetle. Bucky quickly snapped the book shut and looked aside to his friend.

"Sorry," said Steve. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You're not," Bucky assured him. "I'm just a little paranoid." He held up the book as an example. "Nearly two years of trying to keep these things hidden… they're kinda… well…"

"Private. I get it."

"You probably know lots of stuff in them already," Bucky rushed on, trying to fill a silence before it could properly form and become uncomfortable. "Like… that Christmas when my folks got Bonnie. You remember that, right?"

Steve nodded and smiled. "Yeah. She was an adorable puppy. Not a patch on Bingo, of course, but perfect for Janet."

"Yeah." Bucky took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair. He'd already switched from his shirt to his flak jacket and utility belt, and had thought to grab a few moments alone with his memories while the rest of the team were still gearing up. "My memories come back slowly. One day, I might not need the books anymore. One day, I'd like to tell you about some of the things in them. Some of the things I didn't tell you before because they were too painful. Things like Carrot and Wells and how Tipper stepped on a mine and there wasn't enough of him left to bury. But for now, I need to keep remembering. Keep writing. I don't want people to see me—I mean, my memories—before they're complete."

"I understand."

"I know you do. Thanks."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, just like old times. But these weren't _exactly_ like old times. The friends Steve had now were very different to the friends Steve had had back in 1945. They were a motley crew of soldiers, spies, thieves and… well, whatever the hell Wanda was. On the outside, she looked like a normal young woman, but Bucky was an _expert_ in knowing how different the inside and the outside could be.

Things had moved swiftly, these past twenty-four hours, except for the awkward night in the car. In the morning, Steve had driven to a pre-arranged meeting place, where Sharon—a pretty blonde whom Bucky guiltily recalled the Soldier had tried to kill—had met them with all of their gear and Bucky's confiscated memories. A couple of hours later and they'd arrived at Leipzig airport, where the rest of the team was waiting for them. So far, they'd all been cool professionalism. This sort of thing was probably old hat for people who regularly saved the world from aliens and murderous robots.

"I want you to go with Sam," said Steve, turning to business and interrupting Bucky's recollection of the floating city he'd seen on the news a year ago. "Head into the terminal. Look for the quinjet."

Bucky tried not to let his disappointment show. "Oh? I figured you'd want me there with you. Keep an eye on me, y'know." He'd thought they'd be fighting side by side, just like old times, but he didn't wanna _say_ that. Didn't wanna come across as afraid, or needy.

"As you are right now, I don't think I need to keep an eye on you." Steve visibly steeled himself before continuing. "I don't want you facing off against the others."

"Afraid I'll hurt your friends?"

"Afraid they'll hurt you," Steve corrected. "You shot Nat. Twice. T'Challa thinks you murdered his father, and Tony… well, I'll handle him."

Bucky fixed his gaze on the ground and nodded. Did Steve know about Howard? About how he'd died? Did he know the Winter Soldier had killed the guy who'd once been his friend? No… no, Steve couldn't know that, otherwise he would have known about the serum, about the other Soldiers. And if he knew, he probably wouldn't be helping Bucky. He'd probably hand Bucky over to Howard's son and wash his hands of the whole mess.

"Plus," Steve continued, "there are left-luggage lockers in the airport. You can stash your books in one of them. Keep them safe and hidden until this is over. We can come back for them later."

"Good idea. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." With pursed lips, Steve reached out to place a heavy hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"Of course," he lied. Damn Steve and his damned attentiveness. In truth, Bucky wasn't okay. Ever since the decision had been made to head to Siberia, one scene had been flashing through his mind again and again. He'd made himself a promise, and now he was breaking it. "I guess."

"You guess? Bucky, either you're okay, or you're not okay. With what's about to go down, I need to know which it is." Steve's hand gave a gentle, encouraging squeeze. Bucky closed his eyes. He couldn't lie to his friend. This wasn't just Steve, concerned for his welfare; it was Captain America, concerned for the mission.

"I s'pose you deserve the truth. See, the thing is… I almost killed someone. Back in New York. I mean, before I came to hide in Europe. There was a guy, and he pulled a gun on me. Tried to mug me. I wasn't too bothered about that, but then he mentioned that he'd shot someone… a girl… and I just saw red. I would've choked the life outta him, if I hadn't come to my senses in time." If it hadn't been for that epiphany. That little seed of _something_ inside his chest. "I promised myself then that there would be no more killing. I wouldn't take a life, not even the life of a criminal. Not even if I thought they deserved it."

"Ah." Steve ran a hand through his hair, a thousand emotions etched onto his face, each of them warring for first place at the starting line. "Y'know, you could've mentioned this before we made plans to go to Siberia and stop those Winter Soldiers."

"Yeah, I know. But, well, I expect my moral high road to last as long as the first bullets start flying. I held back in Bucharest because I knew I had the upper hand, and that if I went in at full speed I'd end up killing someone. But this time, I _can_ _'t_ hold back. If I don't go in at full speed, these Hydra soldiers will wipe the floor with me, and we'll end up with our side being hurt or worse. I've resigned myself to this. When we get to Siberia, I'm probably going to have to kill. But it still sits heavy on me."

Speaking his concerns aloud… it helped. A little.

"If you wanna sit it out, then you sit it out," said Steve, giving another reassuring squeeze. "If you don't wanna sit it out, or feel like you _can_ _'t_ , then just do the best you can do. When this is over, if it's still sitting heavy on you, then whatever you need to help you get through it… I'll make sure you get it. And I promise you won't have to go through it alone."

Bucky smiled his gratitude at his friend. "Y'know what I'd really like? To just stop having to run, and fight. To find somewhere quiet where I can just be me."

"You'll get that. I promise," said Steve. And looking into Steve's honest blue eyes, Bucky truly believed him.

At that moment, Scott Lang appeared, leaning over the top of the Beetle with several sandwich cartons in his hands. "Hey, we picked these up on the flight over. Do you guys want beef, or chicken?" Like Steve, he was suited up, though the face-plate had been left off his helmet. His red, black and silver attire was actually kinda awesome. If Lang had been a little taller, and not so slightly built, Bucky might even have found the whole effect pretty intimidating.

Steve gave him one of those _I_ _'m-patiently-not-saying-anything-while-I-wait-for-you-to-go-away_ looks, but Bucky's stomach demanded food now that it had been offered.

"I'll take chicken."

"Chicken, sure, there you go," said Lang. "Oh, here, take this bottle of water too. I can't drink anything once I'm in the suit; you wouldn't believe how difficult bathroom breaks are, and I get nervous right before I fight super-heroes. Not that, y'know, I do this sort of thing very often. I'll be over in the van if you need me."

Bucky had already downed half the water and taken a huge bite out of the sandwich by the time Steve turned back to him with another of _those_ looks.

"What?" he demanded, swallowing the chunk of sandwich. "It's not like the CIA fed me. I don't know what enhancements the serum gave _you_ , but I still need a drink every day or two."

"I've missed you, pal," said Steve. "And when this is all over, we're gonna have a catch-up. A very long catch-up. Possibly involving stuffing ourselves with popcorn. And maybe a bottle of Scotch."

"And sleeping on couch cushions on the floor?"

A lop-sided smile stole across Steve's face. "Don't you think we're a little… uh… large, now, for sleeping on couch cushions?"

"Yeah. But that just means we have to find a bigger couch."

Steve clapped him on the shoulder then pushed himself up to check on the rest of the team. "It's good to have you back, Buck."

 _And it_ _'s good to_ be _back,_ he thought, as Steve wandered off. _Hopefully this time, it_ _'s for good._

o - o - o - o - o

Sam didn't like him much. He could tell. And he thought it might have gone a little deeper than that whole 'thrown off a helicarrier' situation. But this wasn't the time to hash out whatever problem Sam had with him. They had a quinjet to find.

"Hey, Wilson?" he said, because he didn't think he and Sam were on first-name terms yet.

"Yes, Barnes?"

"What's a quinjet?"

"Sort of a large, long-range aircraft with repulsor engines, that's big enough to carry a group of people."

"What does a quinjet look like?"

"Like a large, long-range aircraft with repulsor engines, that's big enough to carry a group of people."

Yep, Sam definitely didn't like him much. "That's not very helpful. How'm I supposed to find one of these things if I don't even know what it looks like?"

Sam gave him a very long, very blank stare through his tinted flight glasses. It was a stare that made the Soldier open his eyes and pay a little more attention.

"Dude, you blew like, fifty of them up when you went on your murder-spree at the Triskelion."

 _Oh._

"Oh."

"Anyway, don't worry about it. You're not here to find Stark's quinjet. Redwing will find it soon enough."

"You named your little drone thing?" Bucky asked. Sam had seemed real proud of that drone, when he'd sent it off to do a tour of Leipzig airport. Never would'a thought the guy was the type to name his stuff. For the second time in as many days, Bucky felt a new sort of kinship for Sam. "I bet you talk to it too, don't you?"

"What? No, I don't talk to it," Sam scoffed. But Bucky could tell he was lying.

The airport was eerily quiet. How many people were missing their flights because of this? How many planes had been redirected to other airports? How many complaints would travel insurance companies be getting for the delays? How much would the CIA have to pay out in compensation to disgruntled travellers? All of this, to catch Bucky. The magnitude of this exercise was dizzying. The world was so afraid of him that they had _evacuated an entire airport_ just to try and stop him leaving the country.

 _Maybe it won_ _'t come down to a fight. Maybe Steve can talk the others 'round. Tell 'em about that doctor, and about the other Winter Soldiers. Maybe we can all go there together. One big happy family. Ten against five is much better odds than six against five. We could get there in time to stop those Soldiers being woken up. Take the doctor into custody, be back in time for dinner. Then I won't ever have to fight again._

It was a nice thought, but deep down, he knew it wouldn't work out like that. Steve wanted to try to talk to Stark, make him understand the reality of the situation, but Sam and the others… they seemed to think Stark wasn't a 'reality of the situation' kinda guy. But Steve liked to see the best in people. He had to at least try. Even if this ended in a fight, which it probably would, he had to offer a different way out. A third path to take.

"How did Stark and the others even find us?" he mused quietly. Not too quietly for Sam to hear.

"Sharon, probably."

"You think she gave us up?"

Sam made a dismissive raspberry-blowing sound. "I really doubt that. She's the one who tipped us off to your whereabouts in the first place, and she's pretty sweet on Steve."

"I noticed." She wasn't Bucky's type, but she seemed nice enough, and she'd gone out of her way to get his memories back. One day, he'd have to apologise for the Soldier trying to kill her.

"It's more likely the CIA planted a bug on our equipment, or on Sharon's car," Sam continued. He gave a patient little smile that managed to be condescending at the same time. "A 'bug' is a tiny little electronic—"

"I _know_ what a bug is," he grumbled. "I watch X-Files, y'know." But he was only up to season five, and apparently there were movies, as well. At least there would be plenty of time for X-Files once they'd caught the doctor and cleared Bucky's name. Hell, he'd have an X-Files _marathon._

"This'll do," said Sam, stopping at a window of the terminal and reaching up to activate the drone feedback on his flight goggles. "Can you see the helicopter?"

Bucky squinted through the window. The chopper Barton had requested was sitting on the other side of the runway. One big fat open target. Clearly, Stark thought he was dealing with idiots.

"Yeah."

"Good. Keep up a running commentary of what you see. When company arrives, we may get short on time real quick." Sam tapped his ear-piece. "Alright Cap, we're in place."

Barton's voice came gloating over the comm line, and Bucky quickly turned down the volume on his own ear-piece. Sometimes he forgot he had enhanced hearing. Sometimes he forgot he wasn't a normal guy anymore.

 _"_ _What took you so long? We've been in place for five minutes."_

"Some of us had to go more than two hundred metres," Sam replied.

 _"_ _Stay alert, everyone,"_ Steve's voice said. _"I'm just getting Lang into place, then we'll get this started."_

Some things never changed. Seventy years on ice, and Steve was still playing the part of dutiful leader. Always putting the mission ahead of everything else; even his own life. Well, that wouldn't be the case this time. Steve's life would come ahead of the mission. Bucky would see to that.

He focused on the helicopter as he waited. Sam was silent, concentrating on the input from his drone. Bucky could practically _feel_ the tension rolling off the guy, but there was nothing he could do about that. If this had been Europe circa 1943, and Sam had been one of his friends in the 107th, Bucky could have rolled out some light banter to diffuse the tension; a joke at Wells' expense, a grumble about how those Screaming Eagles were cheating bastards when it came to poker, a complaint about last night's canned beans served in the Mess.

But this was Europe circa 2016, and although he'd been a soldier, Sam wasn't one of his friends in the 107th. There could be no camaraderie because Bucky had tried to kill Sam twice, and even though he hadn't exactly been himself at the time, it was something he remembered as clearly as yesterday. Which, admittedly, he didn't remember very clearly, because that doctor had brought out the Winter Soldier. They day before yesterday, perhaps.

"There's Steve," he said, when a blue and white figure appeared from the airport entrance, just about visible to Bucky's eyes as he jogged towards the waiting helicopter. Two blurs appeared in the sky, landing heavily on the ground with no care for damage to the tarmac. All that tech at their disposal and they couldn't even manage a gentle landing? "Looks like Iron Man and flying-tin-can-suit-guy just arrived."

"You mean Rhodey?"

"Whatever."

"What are they doing now?"

"Talking."

"Does it look like it's going in our favour?"

Bucky squinted again, but the figures were just too far away for him to make out any finer detail. Even Steve's face was an indistinct blur.

"I dunno. My eyes aren't _that_ sharp."

"Knew I should've teamed up with Hawkeye," Sam grumbled under his breath.

Another blur on the grey field caught Bucky's attention. "Looks like cat-suit-guy just showed up." He turned his head when he felt Sam's goggled eyes boring into his skull. "What?"

"Dude, if you ever call me 'bird-suit-guy,' you and I are going to have a serious falling out."

Several witty responses presented themselves, but he pushed them away. Now was not the time for being witty. Right now, he needed to focus on _not_ antagonising the only people in the world who didn't wanna see him dead. "Noted."

"What's going on now?"

"More talking," Bucky reported. "Looks like Iron Man's giving a speech. He's talking _and_ walking at the same time. And gesticulating, too."

"Yeah, he does that," Sam scoffed. "For most people, talking's enough, but Stark always has to go one better. He likes to combine walking and talking, and if he's _gesticulating_ … well, we're in trouble now."

Bucky couldn't tell whether Sam was being sarcastic, or making fun of him, or taking a dig at Stark, so he just assumed it was all three and let them slide. Besides, another blur had caught his attention.

"Huh. Nat just arrived."

"Oh, she gets a name?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Fine: woman-I-shot-twice."

"And let me guess… more talking?"

"Yeah." _Blur._ "But I don't think it's going well for us down there."

"Why not?"

"Because a clown just appeared and stole Steve's shield."

"You're bullshitting me."

"I never bullshit about clowns. They're scary. But you better find that quinjet fast, I think our 'talking' option just ran out."

"You can thank me later for my excellent timing," Wilson grinned. "I think I just found it." He tapped his ear-piece, transmitting to the rest of the team. "We found it. Their quinjet's in hanger five, north runway."

Several blurs happened at once. Steve's voice over the comm said, _"Alright, Lang,"_ and one of the blurs appeared from nowhere, kicking the clown on the jaw and taking back Steve's shield. After that, the blurs began to scatter, Iron Man heading for the parking deck, cat-suit-guy heading for the terminal entrance, and flying-tin-can-suit guy pushing off into the air.

"We gotta move," Bucky told Sam.

They ran, sprinting down the corridor, following signs for the north runway. _This is probably the first time I_ _'ve ever been in an airport,_ he thought, as he set a pace Wilson could keep up with. Most of his travel had been done by sea and by train. Or, in the case of Hydra, secret personal helicopter, most likely. One day, he would like to use an airport properly, get the full passenger experience. Just another guy taking a trip. Not even in business class, either. Though, that executive lounge in the corner looked nice and comfortable. Did you have to be an executive to use it?

Something landed on the glass roof above, and Bucky felt himself vindicated. _Clown!_

"What the hell's that?" he asked Sam. Because the world was a crazy place, and Sam was bound to have a better grasp on its crazy than a guy who'd spent the past seventy years being frozen and brainwashed in turn.

Sam merely shook his head. "Everyone's got a gimmick now."

Clown-suit-guy kicked off from the glass, then somehow came swinging back _in_. The glass shattered, and the guy hit Sam with both feet, knocking him flying. It would have been easy for Bucky to increase his speed, to quickly put a whole lotta distance between himself and the clown. But Sam was Steve's friend, and they were going to need everyone when they got to Siberia. Besides, Steve would never forgive him if he left his friend behind… and Bucky had to admit, he'd never forgive himself, either. The 107th never left a comrade behind, and although Sam wasn't part of the 107th, Bucky _was_. He couldn't change who he was in his heart.

He stopped and turned, swinging out with his left arm, using only about half its full strength because hell, the clown was kinda small, and he didn't wanna _kill_ the guy. Then, something happened that had never happened before. The clown _caught his punch._ Caught it, and turned his arm over like it was nothing more difficult than turning over a couch cushion.

"You have a metal arm?" the clown asked, in a young, kinda squeaky voice. Bucky had never been that squeaky, but it reminded him of Steve, age fourteen. "That is awesome, dude."

The Soldier snarled from within. _Awesome_? It was _awesome_ to fall almost to your death? To have your arm ripped off by the force of the landing? To be left for dead in some grim cell? To be experimented on and mutilated again and again? No, it most certainly was _not_ awesome.

Before Bucky could even think of retaliating, Wilson was there, his wings out, his jet pack propelling him forward, grabbing the clown-suit-kid and carrying him up into the air where Sam performed at his best. Bucky ran after them, one eye on the pair in the air, another kept firmly on the outside of the terminal. Who knew how many clowns Stark would send in?

He could still make out movement, down on the runway. As he watched, cars erupted from the side of the parking deck, pummelling Iron Man into the asphalt. Wanda was below them, controlling their descent with her mind, whilst Barton stood ineffectively by.

 _Note to self: do not piss her off._

When introduced by Steve, Wanda had greeted Bucky with a great deal of reticence. She didn't seem the shy type, so he could only guess the prospect of meeting someone who'd spent the past seventy years mindlessly killing people didn't agree with her. Seeing how she could so casually toss cars around with her mind made him glad she was along for the ride. Winter Soldiers were easier to throw than cars, even if they tended to hit back harder.

"You have the right to remain silent!" the clown-suit-kid told Sam, as the two grappled in mid-air.

Bucky watched helplessly from the ground. From behind his eyes, the Soldier studied his opponent. The clown comparison was quickly fading. This guy was fast and agile, and the way he swung through the air made Bucky think he'd be just at home swinging through the jungle. It reminded him of a show he'd seen on the TV, back in Bucharest. A documentary about spider monkeys.

He had to do something to distract spider-monkey-kid from Sam; at this rate, they'd never reach the quinjet. He had no weapon, other than his knife, but that wasn't a problem. He took a page out of Jacques Dernier's book; the Frenchman had been able to make a bomb out of pretty much anything you could name. A bomb was quite clearly out of the question, but he had another idea.

Reaching out to one of the electronic direction signs, he took hold and wrenched it from the wall, the servo motors in his arm squealing with the effort. Electronic board signs were easier to move than tractors, and he gave a firm yank to snap the wires still trying to hold it to the wall. Then, he waited, poised, until he got his moment. 'Til Sam was far enough away from spider-monkey-kid that there was no chance of him being hit by accident.

He hurled the heavy sign with all the force he could muster, but the kid must've had eyes in the back of his head, because he dodged it like he'd seen it coming. Bucky ducked behind a large billboard, and when he peeped out, the first thing he saw was the sign flying back towards him like a damn Frisbee. It hit the billboard, and both erupted in a shower of sparks.

 _Shit!_

"Hey buddy, I think you lost this!" the spider-monkey-kid mocked.

 _I hate spider monkeys. Why can_ _'t the world go back to being like it was in 1943, when the strangest thing you had to see was a guy with a red skull for a face?_

He had no time to ponder the question any further. As he watched, and tried to come up with some new plan for taking out a combatant he couldn't reach, Sam came in for another strike, and the spider-monkey-kid dodged it, then shot some of that weird-looking webbing stuff onto Sam's wing pack. The wings seized up and retracted, and Sam went crashing heavily into a stand. Clearly he'd done a lot of crashing before, because he expertly rolled to his feet, and turned to face his opponent.

Spider-monkey-guy was faster. As Sam was still reacting, two shots of webbing hit his hands, pulling them back and sticking them firmly to the balcony railing, fixing Sam in place. _Stupid crazy world._

"Those wings carbon fibre?" the spider-monkey-kid asked. Somehow, he managed to be clinging to the side of the wall.

"Is this stuff coming out of you?" countered Sam, his voice reflecting the disgust on his face as he glanced down at the white webbing on his hands.

"That would explain the rigidity-flexibility ratio, which I gotta say, that's awesome."

This was much worse than a kid in a costume, Bucky realised. It was a _science geek_ in a costume. Out of the suit, he was probably one of those quiet, neat, unassuming kids who wore a pocket-protector and spent his free time sequestered in a school lab mixing chemicals together instead of hanging out with friends, or gettin' to know girls. The kinda kids who'd always been in the background of Bucky's school, who got pity even from _Steve_. The kinda kids who'd graduated with free scholarships to Ivy-league schools, then gone on to invent a thousand new ways to destroy the world.

"I don't know if you've been in a fight before," Sam said, enjoying the science-lecture about as much as Bucky was, "but there's usually not this much talking."

"Oh right, sorry, my bad."

Bucky saw the next move coming even before the spider-monkey-kid had started swinging. He dashed forward while the Soldier was still looking around for impromptu weapons, moving towards Sam while the kid in the costume swung down in an arc. He lifted his left arm as a shield as he stepped between the pair, because nobody but Bucky was allowed to throw Sam Wilson from high places.

His arm absorbed the impact of the blow, but the kid must've had a big breakfast, because he hit with the force of a truck. Bucky was knocked sideways, into Sam, who crashed through the glass and the balcony railing, and they both went tumbling down onto the tiles of the lower floor. The uncontrolled falling sensation momentarily disoriented Bucky, made the Soldier balk inside him. Before either of them could recover, a splatter of white webbing came flying outta nowhere, pulling his cybernetic arm down, fixing it to the ground. A quick glance at Sam showed him the dark man's arms were webbed together in front of his chest, leaving both of them immobile and staring up at their tiny attacker.

Bucky could already see tomorrow's headline. _'Experienced Avenger and Winter Soldier caught by 14 year old science geek in clown costume.'_ He would never be able to live this down. He'd won three boxing championships. Served on the front lines in the Second World War. Been the world's most dangerous assassin for almost seventy years. And now he'd been disabled by a 90-pound squeaky-voiced kid who probably didn't even know what was at stake, or what he was fighting for. Hadn't anybody ever explained to the boy that you had to _know_ what you were fighting for? That a man who fought for nothing would fall for anything? That the only people who fought for the sake of fighting were madmen and bullies?

"Guys, look," the kid gloated from his perch high above the floor, "I'd love to keep this up but I've only got one job here today and I've gotta impress Mr Stark, so… I'm really sorry."

The kid held out his wrist, and Bucky tensed himself for the worst. But the cocoon of horrible webbing didn't come. He wasn't mummified in the sticky white stuff, because Sam's drone appeared out of nowhere, capturing the kid's wrist with a grapple and dragging him with a surprised yell out through the glass of the terminal roof before releasing him to the tender mercy of gravity.

Captured by a kid, saved by a flying robot bird. There was _no_ way he was ever getting any of his credibility back, after this.

"You couldn't have done that earlier?" he asked Sam.

"I hate you," Sam replied. But it was a sort of laconic, camaraderie-filled hate that Bucky understood. "Can you get free?"

"Yeah." He reached down with his right hand and pulled out his knife. He suspected the kid hadn't been given the full Winter Soldier debriefing, or he never would have left Bucky's right arm free. Just because it wasn't as strong as his metal arm didn't mean it wasn't stronger than a normal man's. _Shoddy intel, poor debriefing, involving children_ _… Stark really must be desperate to arrest us._

He sliced through the webbing pinning his left arm to the floor, then sat up and freed Sam too. Once they were both clear of the dreadful sticky stuff, Bucky pushed himself to his feet and offered Sam his hand. Sam accepted, and Bucky pulled him up.

"I suggest," said Sam, freeing his flight pack from the webbing that had clogged it up, "that we don't tell the others we just got our asses handed to us by a fourteen year old kid."

Bucky nodded. "I agree. They don't need to know the specific details."

"Right." Sam gave him a brief conciliatory sideways look. "And thanks for trying to stop the kid knocking me from that balcony."

"I figure I owe you one. Or two. Or twenty."

"Yeah. At _least_. That helicarrier was a lot higher than this balcony. But we can tally up scores later. We gotta get to the jet before Barton does."

Sam set off at a jog, resuming their original purpose, and Bucky trotted after him.

"Why?"

"Because Barton's old. We just got beat in a fight by a teenager. We can't get beat in a race by an old man."

"Technically I'm a hundred next year."

"Remind me to send you a birthday card."

"Okay," he agreed, "that would be nice."

Sam merely rolled his eyes and jogged on.

o - o - o - o - o

If keeping track of Steve's friends was difficult, keeping track of his former-friends-turned-opponents-but-not-actual-enemies was even harder. But when preachy-flying-guy arrived and asked Steve to stop fighting 'for the collective good,' Bucky realised one thing.

 _They_ _'re not listening. Not a single one of them. They don't care about the collective good. They don't care about doing what's right. They care about what's_ easy _. Steve_ _'s told 'em about the other Soldiers, about the doctor, but they don't care. They want the path of least resistance, but the easy way isn't always the best way, and it isn't always the right way._

And at that moment, he promised himself he wouldn't become that person. That when somebody tried to tell him something, he would at least do them the service of listening to them before making a decision which might have far-reaching consequences. That he would not allow ignorance and hatred to blind him, as it had blinded Steve's former friends and Wakanda's king.

The fighting resumed. It was inevitable. Bucky tried to keep out of it as much as possible. Not because he was afraid to fight, but because he knew it was what Steve wanted. Too many of these people carried potential grudges against him, and the only way he could truly be safe was by using overwhelming force. But if he did that, people would be hurt. Stark's team of fashion rejects might be ignorant to the true threat, but that didn't mean they deserved to be hurt.

Avoiding the fight wasn't easy when the fight sought you out. Steve's former friends and teammates might be holding back from causing each other real physical damage, but King T'Challa had no such compunctions. He made a beeline for Bucky, cutting off his route to the quinjet, going on the offensive with an immediate ferocity. It was all Bucky could do to keep the guy from tearing his throat out with claws that had gone through steel like it was nothing, and his own returned strikes made little impact on the guy's suit. Steve had mentioned it was made from vibranium, the same material as Steve's shield. If that was the case, there was nothing known to man that could break through it.

T'Challa's hand came in at throat level, claws extended, and Bucky caught it just in time. This was crazy! T'Challa was out for blood, but he was trying to kill the wrong man. Bucky had to stop that from happening. Not just because it was _his_ blood T'Challa was trying to spill, but because he knew what it was like to have blood on your hands. If Bucky's death would have granted T'Challa peace, he would have given up and let T'Challa have his victory, because God knew, Bucky deserved nothing less for all the pain he had caused. But his death would not bring Wakanda's king any measure of peace; sooner or later the guy would realise he had killed the wrong man, and if had any shred of morality in him, that would sit heavy on him for the rest of his life.

"I didn't kill your father," he told the man.

"Then why did you run?"

 _Because I killed a lot of_ other _fathers. Because I was afraid, and I knew there were still people out there who wanted to use me, use Hydra_ _'s weapon, for their own purposes. Because I needed to find myself, and I couldn't do that in a cell, or in a chair. Because I thought I could just live a quiet life, and try to make amends for all the wrong they made me do._

Even if Bucky had been able to say those things, the king would not have listened. Bucky couldn't see the guy's eyes, but he knew it. T'Challa was as blinded as the rest of them, so there could be no discussion. No dialogue. There could be only the fight.

He kept a tight rein on the Soldier. As he fought T'Challa, he also fought himself. The Soldier wanted input. He'd been made to fight and kill, and violence had always had a way of rousing Hydra's weapon. But keeping a leash on the Soldier took its toll. While Bucky was trying to stop the Soldier from seizing control of his body, he couldn't focus properly on his opponent. T'Challa landed blows which ordinarily he might not have landed, each one hitting Bucky like a sledgehammer. Where the hell was this guy getting his strength from? What was his secret? Did he eat a can of spinach before every fight?

The Soldier made another grab for control, and Bucky snarled back at him, pushing him back down into the slumbering darkness. T'Challa took advantage of the lapse in concentration, throwing Bucky against a pile of wooden crates. He hit them and landed heavily on the ground, pushing himself up just in time to see T'Challa's claws come slashing down once more towards his throat. And there was nothing he could do but feel his blood spill out over the tarmac.

The pain did not come. The blood did not flow. And suddenly, T'Challa was wrenched away by some invisible force, sent flying through the air, into a mobile boarding platform. Off to his side, Wanda gave him a small nod, which he returned. It felt good, to have someone watching his back.

Wanda dashed off to offer her assistance elsewhere, and Bucky finally managed to get a solid hold on the Soldier, sending him away now that the immediate threat to his life was gone. He used the opportunity to glance around, to see where his help was needed… and quickly realised that it wasn't. Steve's team were not only holding their own, they were slowly gaining the upper hand. Steve himself was fighting the spider-monkey-kid, and as Bucky watched, his friend trapped the kid beneath a falling boarding platform. Sam was being chased by Iron Man, but Barton and Lang were already on it. Wanda was keeping flying-tin-can-suit-guy and preachy-flying-guy distracted, and T'Challa still hadn't reappeared from where she'd thrown him.

Bucky met up with Steve beside the boarding steps of one of the airplanes. As they took a moment to catch their breath, he studied his friend's face, and knew they'd come to the same conclusion. Every moment spent here was a vital moment lost. A moment in which another Winter Soldier was being woken from cryo.

"We gotta go, that guy's probably in Siberia by now."

Steve eyes scanned the skies "We gotta draw out the fliers." God dammit, Steve was right. With three airborne opponents, there was no way they could hope to get away. Those three would be on them before they could even clear German airspace. And Steve knew that, too. The look he gave Bucky was resigned. "I'll take Vision, you get to the jet."

 _"No."_ Sam said it before Bucky could, his voice coming in loud and clear—and sounding a little stressed—over their private communication line. _"You get to the jet. Both of you. The rest of us aren't getting out of here."_

 _"_ _As much as I hate to admit it,"_ Barton added, _"if we're going to win this one, some of us might have to lose it."_

Bucky's estimation of both men immediately soared. Not just because of their willingness to sacrifice themselves, but because of their ability to recognise a sound strategy even in the heat of combat. _Divide and conquer_ paid off more often than not.

As if sensing his friend would be opposed to the idea, Sam drove the point home. " _This isn_ _'t the real fight, Steve."_

"Alright Sam." Steve's voice was heavy with the weight of his decision. It wasn't often Bucky felt the stirrings of sympathy for someone other than himself these days, but he found sympathy for Steve right then. Though Steve had never shied away from making difficult choices, he was still a soldier at heart, and soldiers did not leave their comrades behind. To do so went against everything they stood for. Bucky gave his friend a small nod, sending him a silent thought of ' _you won_ _'t be in this alone.'_ "What's the play?"

 _"_ _We need a diversion,"_ Sam returned. Bucky could see him, soaring in the sky not far away. _"Something big."_

A new voice piped up over the comm line. _"I got something kinda big,_ " said Lang. _"But I can't hold it very long."_

Bucky looked at Steve, and could tell his friend was trying to work out how many entendres had gone into that statement.

 _"_ _On my signal, run like hell,"_ Lang continued, _"and if I tear myself in half, don't come back for me."_

Bucky shook his head. Whatever Lang was planning, it sounded like madness. Or hyperbole. Maybe both.

"He's gonna tear himself in half?" he asked Steve, hoping his friend would just laugh it off. Super-hero humour. Probably heard it all the time. But Steve didn't laugh it off. In fact, he looked rather worried.

"Are you sure about this, Scott?"

 _"_ _I do it all the time,_ " Lang said, all faux-bravado. The rapid pace of his breathing over the line belied his nerves. _"I mean once. In a lab. Then I passed out."_

All sorts of misgivings ran through Bucky's mind as he heard Lang gear himself up for whatever he was about to do. This was gonna end badly, he could feel it in his gut. This was gonna be Carrot all over again. It was gonna be Tipper and Franklin and Davies and Wells. Bucky wanted to tell him _'no'_ , that this wasn't worth it, that whatever mad scheme he was concocting wasn't worth dying for… but it was too late.

Lang appeared from nowhere. He grew. He grew and he grew, until he was taller than Steve, taller than an airplane, taller than the terminal… as tall as the flight control tower. And suddenly, Scott Lang was a hell of a lot more intimidating than he had been when he was offering Bucky a chicken sandwich.

"I guess that's the signal," said Steve. The look on his face was priceless. Bucky wished he had a camera. It was even better than the look he'd given Peggy when she'd turned up in the _Fiddle_ wearing that fetching red dress. "C'mon, let's use Scott's distraction."

Bucky didn't need telling twice. He sprinted after his friend, making a beeline for the quinjet hidden away in hangar five. Nobody else joined them. Everyone was too busy keeping Stark and his team occupied. Bucky had finally got his prophetic wish; now, it was just him and Steve, just like old times. But he kinda wished that it _wasn_ _'t._

A beam of hot yellow light hit the control tower in front of the hanger, and the whole structure began to fall. _We_ _'re not gonna make it._ The tower would block their way. Stop them getting through to the jet. This had all been for nothing. The doctor was gonna wake the Winter Soldiers in Siberia. The world would become a much darker place.

When the tower stopped collapsing, held in place by a red-hued field, Bucky glanced back at the same time as Steve and saw Wanda holding it in place, a look of intense concentration on her face, a sheen of sweat on her skin betraying how much effort it took for her to keep the tower from falling. He glanced at his friend, and nodded; they picked up the pace before Wanda could lose control.

Just as they passed beneath the tower, it began to collapse. Bucky forced his legs to move faster, forced his weight forward, and he rolled beneath the falling structure just before it crashed to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust and concrete. And just when he thought they were finally safe, finally free from Stark's lackeys, he realised the quinjet was not unguarded.

Nat strode forward, her gaze fixed on Steve's face. Bucky only had very vague recollections of shooting her; she wasn't one of his dead victims, so her face had never come to haunt him and accuse him in his dreams. But he _did_ remember how she'd tried to strangle him with garotte wire, when he'd been the Winter Soldier, and now she had a very determined look in her eyes.

"You're not gonna stop," she accused.

Steve's reply was full of tiredness and resignation. Fighting opposite the people he'd once fought beside was starting to take its toll.

"You know I can't."

Bucky very nearly flinched when her arm came up. "I'm going to regret this." She re-aimed away from Steve, and fired one of her taser discs. It flew right past both men, and when they turned they saw it hit T'Challa. Wakanda's king had made it through the wreckage of the tower, too. "Go."

Bucky didn't need a second invitation, and neither did Steve. They ran past their new, unlikely ally, and boarded the quinjet. Although Hydra had programmed him with plenty of technical information, he found himself reluctant to use it. The inside of the jet wasn't all that different to the one he'd hijacked to reach the helicarrier where he'd nearly killed Steve. Yet another unpleasant reminder of everything he'd done.

Besides, Steve seemed to know what he was doing. He went about the pre-flight with a familiarity borne of experience, so Bucky took a seat and tried to keep out of his friend's way. For the moment, it seemed the best use of his time.


	21. One Tin Soldier

Running To You

 _21\. One Tin Soldier_

The quinjet's engine was a quiet, monotonous hum that would have put Bucky to sleep had it not been for the adrenaline still coursing through his body. The fighting in Leipzig hadn't been as brutal as it could have been, but that didn't make the sacrifice of Sam and the others any less noble.

From the air, they'd watched Lang finally lose control of his giant-size, shrinking back down to his normal self, lying exhausted on the runway. Wanda had succumbed to some sonic weapon aimed at her by flying-tin-can-suit guy, and Clint had been out cold since his hand to hand fight with T'Challa. Though it had looked like Sam might make it away, he'd turned back when some commotion had happened, when one of the men following the quinjet had been hit by a stray beam of harsh light and gone plummeting from the sky like a comet falling to Earth.

Bucky had asked Steve if he'd wanted to turn back, at that point. To help whoever had fallen. To try and salvage what was left of his friendships. Steve's only reply had been a deepening frown, before pushing the quinjet to a faster speed.

A half hour out of the airport, Bucky got up from his seat and went to one of the small windows on the side of the aircraft, scanning the sky for a blur of movement, a flash of bright metal glinting in the sun. There was no sign of the interceptor jets he'd been expecting.

"Why aren't we being stopped?" he asked.

Steve didn't turn around. His response, when it came, was mechanical. Almost cold. "Stealth tech. They only way they can see us is visually, and it's a pretty big sky."

"Right." _Should_ _'a guessed._

He sat back down and studied the back of his friend's head. He didn't need any special abilities to know what Captain America was thinking. Steve felt the same way as Bucky, about leaving people behind. It didn't matter that there was an important mission ahead… in his mind, he'd let his team down, and that'd eat him up from the inside. It was a bugbear that needed to be addressed so that they could go into battle clear-headed, looking ahead instead of back.

"What's gonna happen to your friends?" he asked.

Steve was silent for a few seconds, and as the moment stretched out, Bucky wondered if his friend was even going to answer. It was like Steve was pulling away, separating himself so that he didn't have to feel, protecting himself from further loss. _Doesn_ _'t work, pal. You've gotta let yourself feel the bad, as well as the good. Reminds you of why you keep fighting._

"Whatever it is… I'll deal with it," Steve said at last.

And he would, Bucky realised. Whatever the consequences were, Steve would handle them. That was what Steve did; he looked out for his friends. But this time, he wouldn't have to do it alone. Bucky would help him, because those friends of Steve's, they were kinda the closest thing _he_ had to friends, too. He wanted those people to know they could count on him as he'd been able to count on them, even though he didn't deserve their trust, or their sacrifice. Even though all his friends seemed to have a bad habit of dying young.

"I'm not sure I'm worth all this, Steve," he said.

Finally, he got his friend's full attention. Steve flipped on the auto-pilot and turned in his chair, fixing Bucky with a very patient, resigned stare.

"What you did all those years… it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice."

 _Tell that to the guy in Moscow, or the women in Paris. I may not have chosen to pull that trigger over and over again, but that doesn_ _'t mean there's no blood on my hands. That I don't remember the face of every life I snuffed out._

"I know," he told his friend. "But I did it."

He'd done it, and he had the notebook to prove it. Even Hydra had tried to wipe away what he'd done, erasing the memories so they couldn't stick with their Soldier and weigh him down. But Hydra hadn't been able to erase what he'd done. Nothing could erase that. And no amount of rights could ever truly erase that many wrongs.

"This isn't just about you," Steve said. "Sooner or later, this, or something like it, was going to happen. Tony, Nat, the others… they felt one way about the Accords. Me, Sam, those who joined us… we felt another. Even if you hadn't been here, we would have clashed."

Bucky said nothing. Maybe the situation wouldn't have been any different if he hadn't been there. But if not for him, T'Challa's father would be alive. The doctor would not have bombed the UN, killing and injuring dozens just to frame the Winter Soldier. Perhaps the fight would have gone in Steve's favour.

 _Two against five. Shit._

The thought brought a cold shiver to his flesh. The other Winter Soldiers had been as tough as Bucky, and they had an edge that he had never truly possessed; raw aggression fuelled by hatred. Oh, the Winter Soldier could fight aggressively, but it was a cold, calculated sort of aggression, one of strength and confidence and detachment. _Just a mission_. It had never been personal. The Winter Soldier had never _liked_ the violence, he'd simply been programmed to _do_ it. Liking something meant having an opinion. Being a person. And the Soldier had never been allowed to be that.

The others… they were people. They had likes and dislikes. They were disdainful and arrogant and full of hatred, and they funnelled that negativity, that rage, that knowledge that they were _superior_ , into every punch and kick, letting it feed their strength, wrapping themselves in a cloak of angry violence. Bucky was a good fighter. One of the best. But maybe not good enough. Even with the Winter Soldier's help…

…was that the solution? He didn't know if he could take on one of the other Soldiers and come out still walking. But the Winter Soldier? If ordered to? He could put aside fear and pain and everything that made humans wonderful and weak, and fight as the weapon Hydra had always intended him to be. Perhaps it wasn't _Bucky_ that Steve needed by his side right now.

The thought of bringing the Winter Soldier back made him feel sick to his core, but if that was what it took for this mission to succeed, if that was what it took for them to both walk away from this… he would do it. For Steve.

He looked at his friend. Steve was being typically Steve. Heroic and clench-jawed. He only ever got clenchy like that when he was very worried. Right now, his worry must've been at least 9.9 outta 10. If Bucky even mentioned the words 'Winter Soldier', Steve would have kittens. He had to be sneakier than that.

"So," he said, aiming for _'casual.'_ "Just you and me."

"It'll be like old times," Steve nodded.

"I think we have very different memories of 'old times,'" Bucky snorted. Old times had involved much less spandex. "But all those missions we went on… you and me, and the Commandos… was there any of them when you thought, _'This is it. This is the one we're not coming back from'_?"

"Nope."

"What, not even once?"

"Never." Steve looked up at him, pulling confidence up from somewhere. "Failure was never an option. I never even considered it."

"Huh."

"What about you?"

Bucky shifted in his seat, then stood up to stretch his legs. No point letting his muscles get lazy before combat.

"I dunno. My memories of that time are still kinda sketchy. I guess the closest I probably came was Azzano. Or Austria, when they had me on that table. But after that? Still kind of a jigsaw. I'm still fitting pieces together."

Steve's expression softened, and for one brief instant Bucky saw the kid from Brooklyn who'd just buried his mom. "That can't be easy for you."

He shrugged. "I'm getting there." Time to strike. To hit Steve while his guard was down, while Captain America wasn't in the driving seat. "You know, our chances of coming back from this have dropped considerably, now that we don't have the rest of the team to back us up."

"I know. But we gotta try."

"Yeah. And you need the best guy for the job fighting beside you."

"Lucky for me I got him."

"No, you don't." Bucky fixed his eyes on his friend's face, tried to _will_ Steve into seeing sense. "You got me, and I don't mind telling you that the thought of going up against those guys, the thought of killing again… I'm worried I won't be strong enough. But there's a part of me that _is_ strong enough. That could do all of that and not even bat an eye."

"Not a chance."

And there it was. _That look_ on Steve's face. That look which said he wouldn't be argued with. The look which made everyone who wasn't Bucky back down, because hell; Captain America.

"Remember that time back in London, after you pulled me outta Austria? You told me that Phillips was giving you a chance to turn the tide against Hydra. That this is what you were _made_ to do. And I supported you, because you're my friend. Now we're here, and _this?_ This is what Hydra programmed me for. We've got an asset; we can use Hydra's weapon against them. We'd be stupid not to take every advantage we can get."

"Buck, I appreciate the sentiment, and I respect that you're willing to make that sacrifice. But it's not necessary. We'll get to Siberia before those Soldiers are woken. And if we're too late, then we'll deal with it. Together. This isn't going to be _that_ mission. We're both gonna come back from this."

Bucky took a step forward, trying to keep the scowl from erupting on his face. Why did Steve have to be so damn stubborn, so pig-headed all the time? Why couldn't he accept reality as it was? Why didn't he understand that, sometimes, people didn't come back? "You don't know th—"

 _Flash._

 _A cry of_ _'medic!' pulled Bucky from a dreamless sleep. His eyes flew open, met the bland khaki of the tent above. He was on his feet, pulling on his uniform, even before his mind was fully awake. Calls for medics weren't exactly uncommon in the camp, but it had been sixteen hours since those pilots had missed their supply drop-point, and the teams lead by Wells and Sergeant Haven of the 9th Infantry were overdue._

 _A couple of other men stirred as Bucky hastily dressed, but not nearly as many as there should have been. The 107th was severely depleted; war had taken a heavy toll on the regiment, and almost a quarter of the remaining team were out on the recovery mission._

 _Outside the tent, in the pre-dawn haze, Bucky looked around, and finally saw a group of soldiers being hurried into the hospital ward; his eyes picked out the shoulder insignia of the 107th and the 9th amongst the patches of the medical corps. His stomach immediately tied itself into a knot of worry._

 _The hospital was in organised chaos when Bucky pushed aside the large door flap and stepped inside. The medical staff were busy administering painkillers and antibiotics, stemming the flow of blood, hooking up drips to put blood back in, applying tourniquets to limbs that could not be salvaged. Bucky_ _'s stomach turned, but he fought back the unease as he tried to find a familiar face amongst the mass of injured soldiers._

 _Private Biggs was upright on one of the medical beds, his face a bloody mess, the lower half of his left ear missing. The medics had not yet seen to him; the walking wounded couldn_ _'t take priority. Bucky dodged one of the harassed medical staff and made his way to the soldier._

 _"Private, what happened?" Bucky asked._

 _Biggs looked up at him with a thousand-yard-stare, his face numb with shock despite whatever pain his ear must_ _'ve been giving him. He opened and closed his mouth several times, then mutely shook his head. Bucky reached out a hand, placing it on the man's shoulder, giving a very gentle shake._

 _"_ _Biggs, tell me what happened," he insisted, more gently this time._

 _"_ _G—Germans." Biggs took a deep breath, closed his eyes and steeled himself. "T—They got there first, Sarge. T—Then the shooting started. We were outnumbered."_

 _Bucky looked up at the beds, did a quick head-count. They were five men down._

 _Shit._

 _"_ _Where's Sergeant Wells? Sergeant Haven?"_

 _Biggs shook his head._ _"Haven… gone to report to the brass. Mission failed."_

 _Four. If Haven had gone to report, that meant four men missing. Bucky couldn_ _'t see all the faces of the injured, because the medics were busy working to salvage whoever they could, but he could count insignia, and there were three 107th patches missing, to the 9th's one._

 _"_ _Who'd we lose?"_

 _"_ _P—Private H—Hawkins… C—Corp—Corp…"_

 _It was no use. Biggs began shaking, shock properly setting in. Bucky pushed the man onto his back and shoved a spare pillow beneath his legs, then covered him with one of the itchy grey woollen medical blankets. He silently berated himself. Biggs had been through enough. Bucky would find Wells, and Wells would tell him who they_ _'d lost. It wasn't fair to make a private report this._

 _"_ _Where's Sergeant Wells?" he asked the shaking man. Was it his imagination, or was his head shaking a little harder than the rest of his body? "Sergeant Wells, Private?"_

 _"_ _D—Dead."_

 _Bucky_ _'s world did not come crashing down. It didn't come crashing down because his friend could not be dead. Wells was one of the hundred. He would make it out when the other ninety-nine didn't. Wells was too full of life to be a cold, empty shell. This was a joke. A tasteless, terrible joke. Wells would appear and say something stupid, like 'Ha, I bet for a moment you were really worried about those socks.' And then Bucky would punch him, because that was what you did to people who pretended to be dead just for laughs._

 _No, he would find Wells with Sergeant Haven. Reporting to the brass on how the mission had gone sideways. Telling them how one guy from the 9th Infantry and three from the 107th had been lost along with the supplies. And then, after a chewing out, Wells would come back with him to the hospital tent to check up on the rest of the men. In fact, Bucky could prove, right now, that Wells wasn_ _'t dead._

 _"_ _Did you get his tag?" he asked._

 _Biggs shook his head._ _"H—Haven said he s—saw the Sarge and th—the others g—get h—hit. Ordered us to f—fall back."_

 _"_ _Did_ you _see them get hit?_ _"_

 _Biggs shook his head again, and Bucky left him to his shaking. A small measure of panic had begun to set in. Maybe Wells and the others had come under fire, and Haven had abandoned them. After all, only one guy from the 9th was missing. And the 9th didn_ _'t have the 107th's motto. They didn't know the rule about death._

 _Outside the Colonel_ _'s tent, Bucky stopped when he heard voices from within. The loudest was Sergeant Haven's, and Bucky listened as the guy finished his report._

 _"_ … _and then Sergeant Wells took the left flank, while I led my men right. We were s'posed to advance together, but Sergeant Wells got ahead, and his team came under fire first. I saw Sergeant Wells, Corporal Jones and Private Hawkins go down, and when I lost Private Martland I knew we didn't have enough men to advance and bring back those supplies…"_

 _As he listened, he felt his hands shake before curling into fists, his fingernails biting into his palms. Haven, that bastard, was trying to blame Wells and the 107th for the mission going sideways. Bucky had been on dozens of missions with Wells, and he knew for a fact that his friend wouldn_ _'t let his team get ahead. To him, it wasn't a competition. It wasn't a race. Wells wouldn't put the mission at risk by trying to jump the gun on the plans. Hearing Haven blaming Wells… It was too much. You didn't kick a guy when he was down. Bucky pushed his way into the tent, all thoughts of military etiquette flying out the window._

 _"_ _You're a real bastard, Haven," he growled, squaring up to the shorter man. "Trying to pin your failure on someone who's not here to defend himself."_

 _"_ _Sergeant Barnes, you have not been asked to attend this debriefing, and you are out of line," said Colonel Hawkswell. "You will leave this tent and wait outside."_

 _Bucky ignored the command. There was too much at stake._ _"Sir, I'd like permission to take a team to recover the men and the supplies lost on Sergeant Haven's command."_

 _"_ _Permission denied. Now wait outside, Sergeant, or I'll have the MPs drag you out."_

 _Desperation grew inside Bucky_ _'s chest. Every moment that he lost was a moment in which the danger to Wells and the others increased, and the further away the Germans were getting with their supplies. He had one last chance. Hawkswell wasn't the only one who could authorise a rescue. He turned to Colonel Phillips._

 _"_ _Sir, please. We can't abandon those men. Or the supplies. Let me take out a team. Haven can give me whatever intel he's got on enemy placements and arms, and I can make sure the job gets done."_

 _Because that was what he did. Time and time again, he and Wells had been given the tough missions, the dangerous missions, the missions that made the other regiments sweat, because they could take out a team from the 107th, get the job done, and bring most of their men back alive. They were the best. Everyone knew it. Impossible odds? Send Barnes and Wells._ _Mission into the heart of darkness? Send Barnes and Wells. When their first real mission went sideways, and their lieutenant had gotten himself killed, they'd held the team together, captured the strategically important target, and brought everyone else back safely. They'd crossed the German front lines in Italy to bring out a member of the Italian Resistance who had information vital to the success of the war, and they'd lost only a single man in the process. A dozen times or more they'd done the impossible, taken on the tough missions, performed the army's dirty work. And now getting Wells back was the impossible, the tough mission, the dirty work. Bucky had to get his friend back because he didn't think he could keep doing those things alone. Without Wells, it would be hard enough to keep_ himself _together, much less the team._

 _"_ _I'm sorry, Sergeant," said Phillips. There was a small measure of sympathy on his craggy face, but it was no comfort. "I have to agree with Colonel Hawkswell. It's too dangerous. I'm not sending more good men to their deaths. The Germans have already taken too many in this war. Now, you're dismissed, Sergeant Barnes. You too, Sergeant Haven. Go see to your men."_

 _Haven gave a rigid salute, about-faced and left the tent. Bucky threw a sloppy salute and raced after him._

 _"_ _You left three of my men behind," he accused, standing in front of Haven, preventing him from going any further._

 _Haven_ _'s brown eyes were unsympathetic, and he refused to rise to the anger. Refused to give Bucky a reason to push him into a fight. "Your men are dead, Barnes."_

 _"_ _Did you get their tags?"_

 _"_ _There wasn't ti—"_

 _"_ _No tags, no death," Bucky shot at him. The motto of the 107th. Wells, Hawkins, Jones… they were still alive. Otherwise, someone would've brought back their tags._

 _He didn_ _'t have time to argue with Haven. He had to mount a rescue. If the brass wouldn't authorise it, Bucky would. One man would be able to sneak back there. He could take a jeep. Get the men back, get the supplies back, get his damn socks back. And he'd never let Wells borrow his socks again, because clearly the guy could not be trusted._

 _As the rest of the camp woke, oblivious to their overnight loss, Bucky snuck into the quartermaster_ _'s tent, grabbed a bag and filled it with ammo for his rifle. He also took an emergency medical kit, a couple of blankets and a few tins of food, because it might be a couple of days before he got those men back to base camp._

 _"_ _Sarge!"_

 _Bucky jumped out of his skin as Gusty flew into the tent, and his panicked heart almost beat itself to death. With a scowl, he held a finger to his lips, instructing the corporal to be quiet._

 _"_ _I just heard, Sarge," Gusty whispered, his eyes wide and afraid behind his thin-rimmed spectacles. "Figured you might try to do something stupid."_

 _"_ _Don't try to stop me, Gusty," he whispered back._

 _"_ _I'm not here to stop you, Sarge. I'm here to sign up for the rescue mission."_

 _Bucky quickly shook his head._ _"I can't let you do that. You'll be court-martialled."_

 _"_ _Better than leaving men behind, Sarge. And with two of us, we've twice the chance of succeeding."_

 _"_ _Are you sure? If we do this, I'm not gonna be able to protect you." Hell, he wouldn't even be able to protect himself. His papers would be served so fast that he'd be in some MP cell as soon as he set foot back in camp, given his Dishonourable and sent back home in shame before the end of the week. And that was okay for him, because a sergeant in the 107th had to watch out for his men. But Gusty wasn't a sergeant._

 _"_ _Dead sure." The man gave an uneasy wince. "Sorry. I mean, completely sure. We'll bring 'em back together."_

 _"_ _Alright," Bucky relented. Gusty was obviously mad, and there was no point trying to talk sense into a madman. Besides, he didn't have time to argue right now._

 _Gusty looked both terrified and relieved._ _"So, what's the plan?"_

 _"_ _Take a jeep. Drive to the drop site. Bring our people and our supplies home. It's not a very complex plan, Corporal."_

 _"_ _Right… but…" Gusty's eyes shifted from side to side. "You wanna go_ now? _In broad daylight? Shouldn_ _'t we wait for night? You know we'll only get picked up at the perimeter. They'll shoot our tyres out to stop us leaving. And we don't know where the drop happened. We'll need to get into the Colonel's tent, to look at the map."_

 _Bucky closed his eyes. Gusty was right. He hadn_ _'t stopped to think this through. It was a terrible plan. All he'd thought of was not delaying for even a moment. But if he was gonna bring those men back, he needed to do it with a cool head. Rushing off in the middle of breakfast wouldn't get him very far. Much as he hated the thought of delay, he needed to wait for the right moment._

 _"_ _Okay. We'll go back to the barracks. Wait there until nightfall. As soon as it's dark, we'll slip out, get recon from the Colonel's tent, take a jeep to the site. I'll take this bag and stash it under my bed. The quartermaster won't notice this stuff missing."_

 _"_ _Right, Sarge. Nightfall."_

 _"_ _Until then, act normal," Bucky instructed. "Don't do anything out of the ordinary. Just go about your day as you would any other."_

 _Gusty nodded._ _"Don't worry, Sarge. They won't get anything out of me."_

 _They returned to the barracks. After a while, Gusty left to visit the men in the hospital tent. Just a normal day of seeing his injured comrades. But Bucky didn_ _'t go with him. He needed to keep an eye on the supplies he'd stolen. He sat on the edge of his bed, checking his watch every five minutes. Why was nightfall taking so long? Why couldn't the sun sink faster? It hadn't even finished rising yet. Didn't it know that the missing members of the 107th had probably been captured by the Germans by now?_

 _At midday, two corporals entered the tent and stood to attention. Bucky didn_ _'t recognise their faces, but their patches told him they were something to do with logistics. The only thing he cared about right then was that they were intruding on his waiting._

 _"_ _What?" he demanded._

 _"_ _Sir, we're here to reassign equipment."_

 _Reassign equipment? What the hell did that mean? The only time equipment got reassigned was when someone died. Those vultures went through a guy_ _'s footlocker and stripped it of anything that belonged to the army, redistributing it to other soldiers because gear was in short demand on the front lines, especially since the pilots flying resupply missions kept missing their damn drop points._

 _"_ _Well, go reassign it somewhere else. There's nothing to be reassigned here." When they didn't move, he scowled at them. "That's an order."_

 _"_ _Sir, you can't give us commands. We're operating under orders from the quartermaster."_

 _"_ _Then go and get the damn quartermaster, because I'm not letting you reassign anything. These men are coming back. You'll see."_

 _The corporals looked at each other. Bucky ignored their silent communion._

 _"_ _Sir, we'll give you an hour to go through their effects and take out anything personal. After that, we_ will _be back. And we_ _'ll bring the quartermaster, as you suggested."_

 _Bucky shot another scowl at them as they left, but they didn_ _'t see it. Damn vultures. They'd take everything away now, only to have to bring it back when Bucky returned with the missing men. Well, fine, if they wanted to waste time, he would let them. At least there were things Bucky could keep safe for his comrades. Personal items. Pictures. Letters home. He could make sure they stayed out of the hands of those parasites._

 _He started with Wells_ _' footlocker, because it was closest. Wells had asked him to take care of his letter to his brothers, and Bucky would keep hold of it for him until he brought his friend back._

 _He opened the trunk and rooted through it. He found an envelope, but it wasn_ _'t the right one. It wasn't the letter he'd written to his brothers, because it said 'Sergeant Barnes' on the front. Bucky rolled his eyes. How typical of Wells, to leave him a note to remind him not to forget about the letter to his brothers. The guy could be so patronising, at times._

 _A few minutes later, a small worm of worry burrowed itself into his stomach. He_ _'d been through the whole trunk and found no letter addressed to Wells' brothers. Maybe he'd missed it. He took out everything from the trunk, turned clothes inside out, rooted in pockets and folds, thumbed through the pages of Wells' pocket-sized U.S. Army Edition of 'A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,' even looked_ underneath _the trunk in case it had somehow fallen out. Nothing._

 _Shit._

 _Wells was gonna kill him, when Bucky brought him back. He_ _'d already lost the letter his friend had written to his brothers. Now Wells was going to have to write it out again, and he'd never trust Bucky with it a second time. Not after he'd managed to lose it the first time._

 _He put all the clothes back in the trunk. Then he took them out again and turned them all the right way_ _'round, just to be triply sure that there definitely was no letter. There wasn't._

 _Shit._

 _Wait._

 _Maybe the letter was inside the envelope addressed to Bucky. Yes, that made sense. Wells had made sure Bucky would take care of it for him by putting it inside another envelope. Relief flooded through him as he picked up the envelope with his name on it. Now that he knew where Wells_ _' letter was, he didn't need to open it. He could just give it back like this._

 _He hefted the envelope. Felt pretty light. Maybe it was more of a_ memo _to his brothers, than a letter. But Wells wouldn_ _'t have spent all that time agonising over composing a_ memo _… would he?_

 _Indecision gnawed at his guts. The envelope didn_ _'t feel heavy enough to contain another envelope with a letter inside it. Bucky needed to know that Wells' letter to his brothers was in here, but if he opened it, that meant Wells was dead, because you couldn't open a letter that had your name on it unless the guy who'd written it had been killed in action. Maybe… maybe he would just wait until Wells was back._

 _Unless_ _… maybe Wells had hidden the real letter somewhere else, and this was a clue to its whereabouts. Pillow case, under the mattress, in his duffel bag… yeah, that made sense. Now, Bucky would_ have _to read the note Wells had left him, to find the letter before those vultures came back and stripped the bed sheets and took everything away, letter included. It wasn_ _'t like he was actually_ sending _the letter for Wells… he was just finding it, and keeping it safe until he could return it to his friend._

 _He took a deep breath and slid his finger beneath one corner of the sealed envelope. This didn_ _'t count as carrying out a dead soldier's last wishes, because Wells wasn't dead. He was just pinned down. Maybe a POW. Waiting to be rescued. Trying to keep Hawkins' and Jones' spirits up. Probably telling them bullshit stories about POW camps to try and make himself feel better about getting captured._

 _Before he could talk himself out of it again, he dragged his finger down the length of the envelope flap, tearing it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper filled on both sides with Wells_ _' neat script. Bucky found the front page, and read._

 _'Barnes,_

 _'If you_ _'re reading this, I'm some form of I.A. Maybe K, maybe M, guess it doesn't really matter by this point. You're here, you're reading, that means the brass think I'm not coming back. That_ you _think I_ _'m not coming back. And you're probably panicking like crazy because you can't find the letter I wrote for my brothers. Well, you can stop panicking. I never wrote it. I told you I'd write a letter to the people I care about, and that's what I did. We haven't really known each other that long (though sometimes it feels like forever), but in the short time we've known each other, I've come to care about you more than I ever did for my own brothers, for my own family. You're thinking that's pretty messed up. It's fine to think that, because you know how awful my life back home has been._

 _'It_ _'s hard to write this without knowing the circumstances of my death. Were you there? Was it slow? Did I manage to tell you some of this as I lay dying? And if I did, I hope you got me back to the hospital ward, and got Nurse Sanders to take good care of me. She's the pretty one, with the green eyes and warm hands. Not like that Nurse Madeley, with cold hands and no bedside manner. But just in case you didn't get me back to the medics, in case the shooting was too intense, in case I stepped on a mine, I guess I should try to say here everything that I would've wanted to say to you if I was in the hospital ward with enough time to say goodbye. The things I wish I had the time, or opportunity, or courage, to say before._

 _'I know I_ _'ve been on borrowed time right from the start. That mission Carrot ate a bullet on… it should have been me. Carrot had so much going for him, and a beautiful girl waiting back home. He broke a heart by dying before he was supposed to. That bullet had my name on it, but it missed its mark because I wasn't where I was supposed to be, so Carrot got it instead. I saw how cut up you were after Carrot's death. You tried to hide it, but you're a terrible actor, and too honest to convincingly bullshit your way out of it. So, I guess the first thing I'd tell you is, don't be cut up like that over me. I've been waiting for that bullet to find me ever since Carrot died, and I've made as much peace with my impending death as a guy probably ever can._

 _'I also wanted to say thank you, for being my friend. I know I didn_ _'t always make it easy, and at times, it wasn't easy for me, either. Although I've never wanted for friends, I've never had a friend like you before. Most of the time, when I'm acting like a jerk, people say, "Oh, it's just Danny being Danny." And they tut and roll their eyes and wander off, leaving me alone, waiting for me to stop being a jerk and start being a likable guy again. But you never did that. Even when I was more than a jerk, when I was just plain rude to you, you never left me alone, or tried to push me away. You stood up to me when I was out of order, and let me rant when I needed to get it out of my system, even when it would have been easier for you to just walk._

 _'I never told you this, but from the moment we met, I looked up to you. I guess I saw a little of myself in you, only in you I saw the guy I might have been if I_ _'d had a better family and learnt to shut my mouth a little sooner. Try not to let this inflate your ego too much, but I admired the way you handled everything from the moment we met at Last Stop USA. Everyone seemed to like you, and you had a natural way of making everyone feel welcome, and wanted. When the other regiments were bickering and scrapping, the privates and corporals looked to you as their example, and you set a good one, even when I was goofing around and winding people up to make myself feel better about being there. We can proudly say that the 107th held it together, and that was down to you._

 _'Damn, running out of paper. P.T.O._

 _'Knowing you, and the rest of the 107th_ _… it's been an honour. But more than that, it's given me so much to think about. At the start of the voyage, when Carrot kept bringing out that picture of his girl, I thought he was a real dumb-ass. She'll never wait for him, I thought. He'd wake up one day to a Dear John and we'd have to pick his broken-hearted ass out of the mud and bully the stupid kid into keeping going forward. Now, though, months down the line, I'm not so sure. My perspective has changed, and that's something else I have to thank you for._

 _'I used to think that love was any pretty dame who could tolerate enough bullshit, but that_ _'s not love, that's just pretty dames. No, I had to come halfway across the world to figure out that love isn't a pretty face; love is when you find someone who fills the empty places inside you. Who makes you feel like you don't have to be even 30% bullshit, that you can just be yourself, and being yourself will always be enough because even when it isn't enough, the other person fills in for what you're missing. Some of us find that in our family, in our parents, our brothers and sisters… or cousins and uncles I guess, for those Deep South types. Some of us find it in our girlfriends, and that's how the Samanthas of the world end up engaged to the Carrots of the world. Because love is blind, and if you can close your eyes and sit in silence and still feel complete when you're with the person you love, then it doesn't matter what they look like, even if they're ginger. Love, when it boils down to it, is acceptance of somebody despite their flaws. Maybe even because of them._

 _'I wasn_ _'t expecting to find acceptance in the army. The 107th are the family I never had. I always thought I had three brothers who were strangers; now I know that I have a hundred strangers who are brothers. I think that is a fair trade, and I wouldn't change it, I wouldn't change these past few months, for anything. Meeting you really knocked me for six. I never thought I would find anybody I would care about enough to make sacrifices for, but for you I would have sacrificed anything. Everything. Hell, I would even have given up my claim on Rita Hayworth, let you marry her and have that happiness for yourself. Promise me you'll do that, when you get back. Promise me you'll find Brooklyn's golden girl and ask her to marry you, and don't forget to include me in your speech on your wedding day. And say something nice, too, don't go telling everyone what I jerk I was when you first met me, and how I nearly ended up marrying your girl._

 _'There is no bullshit in this letter, not even 1%. This is me. 100% genuine. There_ _'s probably loads more I could say, but I don't think I need to. You can fill in what I'm missing. You always did. And I bet you're probably around a nine, right about now. I think I would be too, in your place. But now you know me. It's up to you what you do with this letter. Keep it, burn it… it doesn't matter. They're just a dead man's words; what you do with them, that's your choice, Barnes._

 _'Dulce et decorum est pro amicus mori._

 _\- Wells_

 _'P.S. Gutted I never got to meet your sister. Whoops, there_ _'s your 1%.'_

 _Flash._

The inside of the quinjet came crashing back into focus, lurching from side to side in a violent, wrenching shudder. Bucky stumbled, tried to reach out and grab something, anything, but neither flesh nor metal could find a hold. In a stride, Steve was there, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back before he could fall flat on his face.

"Buck, what's wrong?"

Bucky shook his head, waved Steve off, managed to reach out and lean his weight against the side of the aircraft. He forced air into lungs that didn't seem to want to work anymore, lungs that felt like they'd been squeezed and compressed so badly that they didn't know how to draw breath. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his mind, to rid it of the dull khaki tent, to unsee the letter that had doomed his friend by making his death real.

 _Wells, you stupid son of a bitch. You should_ _'a said something. I wouldn't have stopped being your friend._

"What's wrong?" Steve insisted, hovering by his side. "Are you ill? Is it the Hydra programming again?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You don't look—"

"Jeez, Steve, give it a rest," he glared at his friend, then regretted it as soon as Steve gave him that hurt-puppy look. He sank down onto the nearest seat and let himself lean forward as the world stopped spinning. "I just remembered something. That's all. Something from the past."

Maybe Steve realised he wanted space, or maybe he just didn't know how to deal with the situation. He stepped back and crouched down in front of Bucky, a few paces away.

"Do your memories always come back like that?"

Bucky shook his head and swallowed the lump that was trying to rise in his throat. "Sometimes they're dreams. Sometimes they come like that. But some hit harder than others, and that one hit pretty hard." Hit so hard he felt like he'd been punched in the gut in the world's most unfair boxing match.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No."

He didn't mean to snap back so sharp, but he couldn't help it. How could he possibly make Steve understand about Wells? Hell, even _Bucky_ didn't understand about Wells. The guy had broken every unwritten rule about being a soldier, and some pretty specific written ones, too.

"Look, I'm sorry," he offered, because the last thing he wanted was to head into a fight with Steve walking on eggshells around him. "I've been through a lot—"

"I know."

"No, you don't." He straightened up, letting the chair take his weight. Made it a little easier to breathe. "I may not have all my memories back yet, but I'm pretty sure there's plenty of stuff I never told you about, because there are some things you just _don_ _'t_ talk about. Things that I probably dealt with the first time around, but now I'm having to deal with all over again, like it's the first time. Things like all the guilt I felt when Bingo died, and how helpless I felt for not doing more when your mom passed away, and all the friends I made and lost during the war. And that's not even taking into account all the terrible things I did as the Winter Soldier."

"You don't have to go through that alone," said Steve, insufferably understanding as always.

"Yes, I do. Have to. Need to. Want to. I know you're only trying to help, to do what you think is right, but I've spent the past two years doing this alone, and I can't just change that overnight. For the moment, this is who I am. I want to be your friend again, but I also need space."

"You never stopped being my friend, Buck," Steve said quietly. He really could be one stubborn S.O.B. at times. But Bucky couldn't let his friend carry on believing a lie.

"I'm not the same guy you knew. Not yet. I may never be."

And because Steve was insufferably understanding, he took it in his stride. "Then when all this is over, I look forward to getting to know the new you a little better."

"Yeah. Just don't forget the Scotch," he grumbled. "Now, do me a favour and fly this damn kite. I don't wanna put my life in the hands of a computer. I've seen 2001, you know."

Steve gave a quiet chuckle as he resumed his original seat and switched off the auto-pilot. It was only a short time later that Bucky realised he'd been derailed from trying to convince Steve to bring the Winter Soldier out to play, and he had his own stupid mind to blame for that. He just wished his stupid mind hadn't chosen _this_ moment to drop yet another bombshell on him. Just wished he knew what he'd done with that letter, back in 1943.


	22. In the Family

Running To You

 _22\. In the Family_

Bucky kept his focus on a small window in the side of the jet for the rest of the journey. He watched the sky. The clouds. The wisps of white as the quinjet's wings brushed against them, sending them swirling and dancing on unseen zephyrs. With his mind on the clouds, he didn't have to think. About what was about to happen. About what had already happened. About all the people he had lost, and how he now had only one person left to lose before he lost it all.

Without Steve, what reason did he have to continue? Everybody he had ever known, and loved, was gone. The past two years had been about redemption, and atonement, but always with the ultimate goal of cleaning enough of the blood off his tarnished soul that he could stand in front of his friend as a man who was not broken and shattered, but whole and new again. He hadn't thought this far ahead. He hadn't thought beyond earning back Steve's trust, and friendship. And now he'd discovered that, as far as Steve was concerned, Bucky had never _lost_ those things. For Steve, there was nothing left to forgive.

For Bucky, it wasn't that easy. He had let so many people down. He'd let his family down by 'dying'. He'd let his men down by ordering them to their deaths one at a time. He'd let his friends down by not doing more to protect them from war. He'd sent Tipper out on a recon with Gusty and Biggs, and the poor kid had stepped on a mine. He'd not kept a close enough eye on Carrot, and the young corporal had taken a bullet. Franklin and Davies… he didn't know, yet, what had happened to them, but how could it _not_ be his fault? He'd been their sergeant, and they'd died on his watch. And he'd let the best friend he'd made since childhood go off to recover a supply drop in hostile territory, and hadn't even offered to go with him. Maybe if he'd volunteered for the mission, it would have worked out differently. Maybe Bucky wouldn't have been as quick as Haven to abandon the men from the 107th.

He glanced over to the back of Steve's head. _You_ _'re not gonna be Tipper,_ he silently promised his friend. _You_ _'re not gonna be Carrot, or Franklin, or Davies, or Hawkins, or Wells. I'm not gonna let you down, like I let them down._ Steve had sacrificed everything. Literally, everything, to help his friend. And Bucky knew, now, that friends like that did not come along very often. Once in a lifetime, usually. Twice in two, if you were very lucky. That was something he knew now, too. As far as friends were concerned, he was lucky. Very lucky.

"We've just reached Siberia," Steve reported, the calmness of his voice helping to settle Bucky's nerves. "Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most, and we'll reach those coordinates you gave me."

"Maybe you should switch the auto-pilot back on," he suggested. A thought crossed his mind, pulled a smile along with it. "I read about what happened the last time you tried to land a plane."

Steve glanced over his shoulder. He looked mildly amused, in a very dry way.

"Hey, that was a much bigger plane. And it wasn't like I'd had time to read the manual before landing. Besides, technology these days is nothing like it was back then. I don't think even _I_ could crash this thing, it's got so many safety overrides and protocols built into it."

"That's a relief."

Steve's words brought to mind a memory… the memory of sitting in an Alfa Romeo, back in Brooklyn, almost two years ago. An Alfa that had seemed as hi-tech as a jet plane. A Brooklyn that existed because Steve had, once again, sacrificed everything.

He finally stood up and took the co-pilot's seat, to join his friend up front. Steve watched him without comment, and Bucky swivelled the chair around to face his friend.

"Look, Steve. Before we get down there, there's something I wanna say."

"You don't have to say anything—"

"Jeez, man, will you just listen for a minute?" he sighed, brushing back his hair, tucking it behind his ear. Maybe he should'a got a proper haircut before now. But the hair wasn't truly what irritated him. It was more his friend's attempt to shield him from further pain. His attempt to be that damned vibranium shield for Bucky, when Bucky felt like he didn't need shielding at all. "I _do_ have to say something," he insisted, "because I don't know if anyone's ever said it before." Steve watched him, his blue eyes wary. Steve had always been the more articulate one, but now, Bucky found the words came without prompting. "I wanted to say… thank you. For what you did back then. For crashing that plane into the arctic. For giving everything you had to save millions of strangers. Because of you, Mom and Dad, and Mary-Ann and Charlie and Janet, they all got to live out their lives happy and free. Because of you, my brothers and sisters got to grow up, have families of their own, and they got to experience the things you and I missed out on because we were too busy being soldiers. I signed up for them, to protect them. To keep them safe. And when I couldn't do that anymore, you did it for me. So… thank you, for making the tough decisions. For doing the right thing. I know what you had to sacrifice, to make that call."

He'd seen the evidence for himself. In the Smithsonian. In Peggy's heart-wrenching interview. She may have married, but he'd seen it in her eyes—she hadn't found that same sort of love again. She'd settled for somebody she respected and cared for because she'd lost the man she'd given her heart to. He'd been little more than the Winter Soldier at the time he'd seen that video, and hadn't fully understood what he was watching. Now, he understood perfectly. Her heart had been broken, and when she'd finally been able to put it back together, it wasn't the same heart as before. And Bucky could empathise with that more than anybody else in the world. Maybe even more than Steve could.

"I did it for them, too," Steve told him. "For them, and all the others like them. Because they deserved the chance to live, and be happy, and free."

"Y'think we'll ever get there?" Bucky asked him. And for a brief moment, he saw the Steve of his childhood behind the eyes of Captain America.

"If you'd asked me that in 1944, I would've said _'sure, of course.'_ Because back then, I knew for sure who the enemy was, and that when the enemy was gone, the world would be free. Now, though… Sometimes I wake up missing the old days. When things were black and white. When you could easily tell who the bad guys were. And— wait, what are you grinning like that for?"

Bucky couldn't help it. Steve's words so closely resembled his own thoughts recorded in a notebook that it was like hearing his own disjointed ramblings read back to him. It was good to know that after everything that had happened, all the changes wrought in the world, and the revelation of aliens being real, that Steve missed the good old days just as much as he did. The days when you could buy two root-beers for less than a dollar, when popcorn was ten cents per bag, when Christmas had meant something more than PlayStations and iPhones, when girls smiled at you for holding a door open for them, when sometimes all you needed around you was your family and your friends, and that was enough to be happy.

"It's nothing," he assured his friend. "Just realised how much I've missed having you around."

Before Steve could respond, a light began flashing in the cockpit. Bucky tensed himself, ready for whatever bad news Steve was about to impart.

"It's nothing," Steve echoed back in a reassuring tone. "The ahh… sensor thingies just detected a vehicle up ahead."

Bucky felt one of his eyebrows lift. "'Sensor thingies'. Are you sure you know what you're doing up here?"

Steve's grin was sheepish beneath Captain America's mask. "Mostly. I've had the basic training, and clocked a few hours' flight time, but it's generally expected that if I'm up here, something has gone terribly wrong with all the people who're actually qualified to fly it. I just need to know enough to move around safely in the sky and land the darn thing, so I never got the full debriefing on all the technical terms. But we're coming up on the base now. Take a look."

Turning his gaze to the front window as Steve decreased the jet's altitude, his eyes feasted upon a vista of bright, crystalline white broken by dark, craggy brown. This far north, summer was little more than a rumour, and the temperature dropped only enough to allow partial melt of the snow and ice during the day, which quickly re-froze as soon as the sun left the sky. The resulting freeze-thaw had shattered the rocky landscape, leaving it harsh and broken. Something else he could identify with.

When a familiar large outcropping of stone rose up from the ground, sheltering a heavy steel door, Bucky reached out a hand towards the co-pilot's armrest, to steady himself as a crashing wave of dizziness and nausea washed over his mind. Deep inside him, the Soldier roused uneasily.

"Y'okay?" Steve asked, genuine concern etched into every line of his face.

"Yeah, fine." He took a deep breath, counting on the recycled air of the quinjet to chase away his malaise. Thankfully, it worked. Once more, oxygen prevailed. He nodded to the outcropping, taking his friend's focus back to the outside. "Home sweet home. Kinda hoped I'd never have to see this place again."

"I know this isn't easy for you, but I need you," Steve said. "I can't do this alone."

This, Bucky realised, was the difference between Steve Rogers and Captain America. Back in the old days, Steve had tried to do _everything_ alone. Even with Bucky there to back him up, even with Mary-Ann to mother him, and Charlie and Janet to keep him on his toes, he'd wanted to face the world by himself and prove that he was up to any challenge. Since the serum, since the change… it was as if that need to prove himself had faded. Steve suddenly found that he _could_ do everything alone. For the first time he was strong enough to do it. And for the first time, he hadn't _wanted_ to do it alone. In the space of a just few months, that serum had taught Steve what Bucky had been trying to teach him since they were kids.

"Don't worry about me. I'll do whatever it takes to get the job done. Just… let's make it quick, okay? Let's get in there, do what we have to do, then go—" He stopped. He'd been about to say 'go home,' but he didn't know where home was anymore. And now, he had a feeling that he'd left home behind a long time ago. That the river which they said could never be crossed twice, had been paved over and built upon, all sign of it erased.

Steve read his mind. "We'll figure something out. After we're done here. We'll find somewhere you can be safe. Where we can all be safe, until all of this blows over. And wherever that is, you won't have to be there alone. Not anymore."

Bucky nodded, Steve's words from two and eighty years earlier echoing back to him. "'Til the end of the line, right?"

"Right," Steve smiled.

"Anyway," he said, clearing his throat. "I wanted to ask you something."

His friend managed to keep the surprise out of his voice. Almost. "Oh?"

"This kite got any weapons? If we're going up against a bunch of super-soldiers who're as tough as _me_ , I'd kinda like a gun or two. Or seven or eight."

"Yeah," Steve chuckled quietly. "Storage locker in the back. There's a stock of rifles. Help yourself."

He left the co-pilot's chair and headed into the back. "Y'want one?" he called back to his friend.

"No, thanks." Steve rapped his knuckles against the shield, each rap a dull thud because the material it was made from wasn't capable of producing the vibration needed for a ringing tone. "Shield's all I need."

The shield… it drew his eyes to it. The same shield Steve had dropped, that day in Washington. That day Bucky had tried to kill his friend.

"Hey, Buck, are you _really_ okay?" Steve asked again.

"Yeah."

"It's just… you keep getting that look on your face. Like half the time, you're not really here, in the jet. Like you're somewhere else completely."

"Just rememberin' stuff." How many times had he gone vacant? It must'a been a lot, if Steve had noticed it. On the other hand, Steve was one attentive S.O.B., and it didn't take much to make him worry. "Honestly, don't be concerned about me, pal. I'll be where you need me to be, when you need me to be there."

He wasn't sure if he'd managed to convince his friend, but Steve turned back to the controls and began the pre-landing sequence. Bucky took a deep breath and grabbed one of the rifles from the locker. The plastic and metal of its body was cold against his skin, familiar in an unpleasant way. Pity there were no M1 Garands to be found. His old war rifle had a wooden stock that was never cold to the touch, always felt alive in his hands, as if it was an extension of his body. The gun he held now… it wasn't the same. Then again, nothing was the same, not even Bucky himself. Perhaps it was fitting.

He closed the locker and closed his eyes. The last time he'd almost taken a life, he'd made a promise to himself that he never would again. Now, he had to break that promise, because if he didn't, people would die. _Steve_ would die. And a world without Steve in it was a dark world indeed. He just hoped that his broken promise wouldn't break him all over again. That it wouldn't extinguish forever that little seed of potential greatness he was still nurturing inside his chest.

o - o - o - o - o

It was hell. It was familiar, painful, frigid hell. Back on some sunny Geneva street, over a cappuccino and a biscotti, he'd told himself that he would hold nothing back, that he would allow himself to feel every emotion, no matter how small, no matter how painful, because the ability to feel anything at all had been denied to him for so long. And now, his mind was subconsciously making good on that promise, so that every step he took across that barren wasteland stirred new memories, new emotions, the fear and unease and pain and hatred all roiling around inside him, trying to pull him down into the pit of darkness where the Soldier thrashed and gnarled and made it perfectly clear that _he didn_ _'t want to be here._

 _And you think I_ do _want to be here?_ he asked of Hydra's programming. _You may have hated the pain, and the weakness, but it wasn_ _'t_ you _they were erasing each time they made me sit in that chair._

Or… was it? Maybe it _was_ the Soldier they were erasing, not just Bucky. Every time they strapped him into their Frankenscience torture device, it not only kept Bucky's memories repressed, but also completely reset the Winter Soldier back to his factory default. Each time the Soldier began to remember, they wiped the slate clean, then chiselled their command words into their tabula rasa. For the first time in forever, Bucky actually felt a little sorry for Hydra's soldier.

Sympathy for the other five was lacking. There could be no sympathy, because the others had volunteered. Turned themselves into monsters and revelled in the destruction. Unlike Bucky, unlike even Wanda, Hydra had not made those five volunteers into killers; they'd already been that before they'd signed on the dotted line. He had no sympathy for that, and there would be no mercy shown if the doctor had already woken them.

"You look pale," Steve observed, as the chill, biting wind swirled powder snow around them.

"The next time I have to hide out for two years, I'll do it in the Bahamas. Work on my tan." He gave his friend a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry about me, pal, I'm just looking forward to getting the job done then cracking open that bottle of Scotch. Preferably somewhere warm. The Bahamas, maybe."

"The first round's on me."

"Round?" Bucky snorted. "First _bottle_ _'s_ on you, pal."

"If you drink Scotch like you did in the old days, it's gonna be one hell of an expensive reunion," Steve mused.

"Pack your credit card. I hope you have one, because I don't. Figured I probably wouldn't pass the credit checks." A new thought teased a smile out of his lips. "Hey, I had a savings account, from before the war. Whaddya think it'll be worth now?"

"Given the state of the economy? About the same as a bottle of Scotch."

It was crazy. Stupid. In mere moments, they would be going into battle. Going up against cold-blooded, chemically enhanced super soldiers, and there was every chance this could be the last mission they ever went on. Yet here they were, cracking jokes. Falling back on the tried-and-tested _banter_ method of distracting themselves from the prospect of almost certain doom. It really _was_ like old times. That was the first thing you learnt, in war. The sooner you got a sense of humour, the longer it took for you to be broken.

Steve stopped above a print in the snow, and Bucky tore his eyes away from their surroundings for long enough to glance down at it. A boot print, almost fully covered by wind-blown white powder.

"He can't have been here for more than a couple of hours," Steve said.

"Long enough to wake 'em up."

Long enough for them to have warmed from cryo enough to be dangerous. In the past, it had taken the Soldier some thirty minutes to fully recover from the waking process. For his muscles to warm, his limbs to stop shaking, his eyes to be able to adapt to the change in light. Those first few minutes were always the hardest. Processes which relied on autonomic control had to be artificially regulated. It took thirty seconds for the heart to start beating. A minute for the lungs to begin working properly. The ability to blink followed soon after. Pain receptors woke up, neurons fired, muscles and skin registered that they were cold. His mind was awake enough, by the time he was put into the chair, that every burning flash was exquisite agony. And if the other five Soldiers were anything like that, they could already be moving around fully armed by now.

The door to the base had been opened wide enough to allow a man to squeeze through. Steve squeezed first, and Bucky let him. He would follow Steve's lead, and protect his friend's back. And maybe, perhaps, if they were very lucky, they might walk out of this alive. They might live to right the wrongs that had been done. Lagos, Vienna, Leipzig… the world was counting on them to succeed. More importantly, Steve's _friends_ were counting on them to succeed. To make their sacrifice worth it. To get them back from wherever they were being kept.

A steel door did nothing to keep out the cold, and he found the inside of the base as frigid as the outside. Perhaps, after Hydra had abandoned it, they'd shut off the power to everything except the cryo units. With the air this chilly, cryo units may not even have been necessary.

"Fifty years from now," said Steve, as they crept their way forward, "when we're old and have about a dozen grand-kids each, we'll be sat out front of the retirement home, and I'll ask, _'Remember that time back in Siberia, when we finally put a stop to Hydra once and for all, and saved the world again?'_ "

"Steve, at the rate you progress in your relationships, it might be fifty years before the _first_ grandkid comes along."

"You've always gotta lower the tone," his friend scoffed.

"Not _always._ But sometimes I just can't help it. It's too easy to yank your chain. And fun. For example, have you asked Sharon yet whether she likes fondue?" he grinned.

"I think we should continue in silence," said Steve. "No point advertising our position."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Silence is fine," he agreed. He'd just remembered why Steve always took a seat at the opposite end of the _Fiddle_ from where the Commandos were drinking, whenever Peggy was around.

Silence did not keep the shadows at bay like friendly banter did. The darkness seemed to crowd him, the shadows welcoming him back to the life he'd left behind. The corridors were all vaguely familiar in ways that made the Soldier squirm uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. It may have been over two years since he was last here, but the Soldier recalled it like it was yesterday.

They took an elevator down to a lower level. The creak and groan of the shaft's frozen pulley mechanism was like the creak and groan of the _Monticello_ _'s_ hull, only without the looming threat of drowning and U-boats. _U-boats_. He gave a mental snort and shook his head. After this was done, after he and Steve were somewhere safe, he'd tell his friend about that last morning on the _Monty_. About how Wells had tried to scare Carrot with talk of U-boats and malnutrition. Steve would probably get a laugh outta that.

 _Get your head in the moment, Barnes,_ he told himself. _You_ _'ve had two years to think about the past, and you can spend the rest of your life thinking about tomorrow. But first you gotta get you and Steve outta this mess, and it's an even messier mess than Austria was. Messier than Azzano. There'll be time enough for thinking forwards and backwards when it's over._

So he fixed his mind in the present. Focused on his surroundings no matter how uncomfortable it made him. Laid his eyes on sights he hadn't seen in two years, sights which were at once completely new and eerily familiar. His senses sharpened, eyes scanning for movement, ears picking up every windy howl, every footstep, every quiet exhale of breath, and he felt his whole body tense in preparation for combat. The tension was a familiar friend, present during every mission he'd undertaken with the 107th, every covert-op he'd run with the Commandos… but it was a long-absent friend, too. He'd never been tense, when he'd been The Soldier. Not unless faced with the chair.

"Anything looking familiar?" Steve asked.

"Everything looks familiar." He fixed his gaze on a corridor ahead. "The main silo's this way." Lifting his gun, he took point, and now his senses were _screaming_ at him to _get out, get out_ before it was too late. Each step forward took him a step closer to the chair. Each step made the Soldier within writhe and snarl and gnash his teeth to get away, trying to grab hold of Bucky's body, to turn it around, to get out and—

 _CRASH!_

He spun, and behind him, so did Steve. At the end of the corridor, something had just hit the blast doors, and now the doors creaked, the groan of metal under stress, metal slowly giving way to a superior strength. Bucky's grip tightened reflexively on the gun. Whatever was behind door number one was coming through it, and soon.

"Ready?" Steve asked, his shield in front of him, his body—annoyingly—between Bucky and their unseen stalker, a shield of flesh and bone that, unlike its vibranium counterpart, could be broken and bruised.

"Yeah." He tried to force his voice to sound calm and even. Tried to pull up a little bit of the Soldier's detached composure, whilst inside his chest, his heart hammered out a beat fast enough to dance to.

With a final groan of complaint, the door slid open. No Hydra super-soldier stepped through it. A glow of cold, white light preceded the heavy stomp of armoured boots, and a lightning bolt of terror jolted down Bucky's spine.

Tony Stark terrified him. At first it had been a normal sort of terrified. The sort of terrified a person got when they saw on the news a few dozen armoured murder-bots trying to destroy the world, each one of them designed by, and looking frighteningly similar to, Tony Stark in his Iron Man suit. Then had come a new terror; the terror of knowing that he had been responsible for killing Stark's parents. He'd killed Howard Stark and not even known it. Killed the man, saw his face watching him from those damn haunting dreams, and not put two and two together, because the Howard Stark Bucky had known had been much younger and looked a lot different.

Now, there was a new kind of terror. _He couldn_ _'t see Stark's eyes_. And that was how Hydra had worked, too. They tended to keep their guards faceless. Masked. Helmets not only to protect the head but to obscure the features of their foot soldiers. The faces of Zola and some of the other doctors who'd worked on him over the years were etched permanently into his mind, but the guards who'd captured him Azzano? The ones who'd taken him to Siberia? They had no faces. No identities. Worse than the Soldier, because they'd volunteered to become puppets on a madman's marionette stage. Without faces, they could not be people, and now Tony Stark didn't have a face, either.

He could feel Steve tense in front of him, every inch of him a coiled spring, wary, prepared to leap into defensive mode. But how hard Stark found them— _again_ —and why had he come alone? Where was his team? Surely he didn't think he could take Bucky and Steve on his own… did he? As that thought crossed his mind, his grip tightened again, and he narrowed his eyes to glare at the armoured figure.

 _You_ _'re not taking Steve. He's the only friend I got left. The only_ family _I got left. I lost so many friends and families over the years; I won_ _'t let you take the one good thing I have._

Stark stepped forward, and the mask slid back from his face, revealing a deep blue shiner beneath one eye. Who'd given him that bruise? Steve? Wanda? Lang? Had Tony Stark come to pay back his bruises with interest?

"You seem a little defensive," Stark said at last.

Steve stepped forward, towards the man who'd been his friend. His shield was still held defensively in front of him, and Bucky didn't move the aim of his gun by even a millimetre. Not that bullets would make much of a dint in that armour, if Stark decided to move fast. But it was better than nothing. A useful distraction, maybe.

"It's been a long day," Steve pointed out.

Stark glanced up to Bucky, as if hearing his silent promise. "At ease, soldier, I'm not currently after you."

"Then why are you here?" shot Steve, before Bucky could even think of opening his mouth. Inside, Bucky smiled. Steve was still tryin' to keep him out of trouble.

"Maybe your story's not so crazy," said Stark, continuing his slow walk forward. "Maybe. Ross has no idea I'm here; I'd like to keep it that way." Well, that certainly explained why the rest of his team weren't here to pick up the spare they'd missed in Leipzig. Stark leant against the wall, affecting a casual pose, one designed to put Steve at ease. Bucky didn't fall for it, kept his gun on the guy, prepared to fire, to give Steve a chance to get a hit in if necessary. "Otherwise I gotta arrest myself."

"Well that sounds like a lotta paperwork." Steve lowered his shield. Bucky tensed. A trap. It had to be a trap. Why would Stark suddenly start believing them now? Why not hours ago? Why not in Leipzig? Why not in Berlin? Why not in goddamn Bucharest? "It's good to see you Tony."

There was genuine warmth in Steve's voice. _He means it. He really is glad to see Stark._ It was something Bucky had forgotten, a concept he'd lost amongst the chaos and the combat. Sure, your friends might annoy you at times, they might be arrogant and contrary, but even when they pissed you off, they were still your friends. Real friendship couldn't be thrown away over a disagreement. Steve had friends. Real friends, the type of which he'd been sadly lacking as that gangly, awkward kid back in Brooklyn. And because friends had been a rarity, Steve valued each and every one he had now. Even the ones who pissed him off.

"You too, Cap." Stark turned to Bucky. "Hey, Manchurian candidate, you're killing me. This is a truce here, you can drop it."

Steve gestured for Bucky to lower his gun. And, for Steve, Bucky relented. He'd already gotten most of his own friends killed; no point gettin' Steve's friends killed, too.

"Why the change of heart?" asked Steve.

"I saw some pretty compelling evidence," Stark replied.

"How compelling?"

"A dead psychiatrist in a Berlin bathtub and a bunch of facial prosthetics." Stark pulled a face like he was being forced to suck a lemon. "You were right, Cap."

"I wish you'd listened to me three days ago." Steve let out a tired sigh, and Bucky knew he was thinking of the friends who hadn't made it outta Leipzig.

"Three days ago you were asking me to listen to you with no hard evidence to back up your claims."

"Yeah, I was," Steve agreed, straightening up, putting a little more confidence into his words. "I was asking you to trust me. I remember a time when you used to do that. I know it's been hard for you, after what happened with Ultron. I know your faith in yourself has been shaken, but I kinda hoped you might keep your faith in me."

"Maybe we could pick a better time to discuss my few and minor shortcomings," said Stark. "Tell you what, we'll clean up Hydra's mess here, find that Sokovian whack-job, and be back at the compound in time for canapés and mojitos around the pool."

"Sokovian what?"

A gleeful light appeared in Stark's eyes; he knew something Steve didn't, and had regained his footing. "That doctor? The one who's been pulling our strings since Vienna? Friday managed to ID him as Helmut Zemo, the commander of a Sokovian covert-ops team. Don't suppose he's somebody you've crossed in a past life?" Stark asked Bucky. Before Bucky could respond, he asked Steve, "Does he actually talk?"

"Do you recognise that name, Buck?" Steve asked him.

Bucky shook his head briefly. "But that doesn't mean much. My memories aren't complete yet, and it wasn't as if I was given full disclosure. I was generally told where to go and what to do; Hydra weren't big on sharing names."

"Well then," said Stark. "Let's go poke the hornet's nest. Which way?"

Bucky gestured with a nod of his head, and watched Stark stalk past. Steve gave him a smile that was probably supposed to be encouraging, but looked more resigned than anything. He could tell right away that Stark was one of those guys who didn't like to take orders; he liked to be in front, calling the shots. What Stark didn't seem to realise was that there wasn't anybody left to follow him. Bucky was here for Steve, and Steve was here to stop those super-soldiers. The mission had no room for a power struggle.

But Steve seemed content to let Stark take point, so Bucky put his misgivings aside. He followed behind Steve, who followed behind Stark, who led the way with corrections in direction called out from Bucky who was prompted by hazy Soldier-memories. _The blind leading the blind, or the crazy leading the crazy._

Stark's technology came in useful just as they passed down a corridor that terminated in a large, circular room. The main silo chamber. The heart of Hydra's super-soldier factory.

"I got heat signatures," the armoured man said.

"How many?" asked Steve.

"Uh… one."

Bucky barely heard the response. An intense chill stole over his body, and the Soldier thrashed around inside him as he stepped into the room. Time and time again, he had been brought here to be destroyed and remade in Hydra's image. Men who'd thought they could play God had tortured him and stolen his life. He knew what he had to do. After this was over, after the super-soldiers had been stopped, he had to burn it to the ground. Burn it, and salt the earth so that those re-growing heads of Hydra could never grow back.

The lights came on, dull but dazzling to his enhanced eyes.

 _Flash._

 _Chair._

 _Flash._

 _Pain._

 _Flash._

 _Coldness._

 _Flash._

Bucky forced his eyes open, forced himself to concentrate on the moment, to keep the flashes away. Stepping forward, he looked down into the pit, to the concrete floor, and saw… nothing. The chair was gone. The flood of relief was so warm that he thought his muscles might melt. The object of fear and pain was not here. Hydra had taken it to Washington, so that the Soldier could be prepped for taking down S.H.I.E.L.D., and either nobody had thought to bring it back here, or nobody had been able to. But where was it now? With that chair, more Soldiers could, perhaps, eventually be made. Until that chair was destroyed, he wasn't safe. Until the words were out of his head, he wasn't safe.

A quiet bleeping finally drew his attention, now that his moment of terror had passed. There were several cryo units lined up along the far curve of the wall, and machines were hooked up to them, monitoring the inhabitants' vitals. Bucky looked closer at the monitors and felt his heart skip a beat. Every ECG had flat-lined. For the first time in a long time, hope took to the wing and soared in his chest. The doctor was too late. The super-soldiers had died in cryo. The world was safe. _Steve_ was safe.

Then, he saw the freezing gases leaking out of the cryo units through single holes which had pierced the glass, and that hope faltered, plummeting back down to earth. The super-soldiers hadn't died; they'd been killed. The single holes were bullet holes, and as he stepped closer he saw the bullets had found their marks. Five soldiers, five bullets to the head. Killed in their only moment of weakness. But _why_?

"If it's any comfort, they died in their sleep," said a disembodied, familiar voice. A voice which made the Soldier growl angrily. It was the voice which had spoken those words. _Idiot. Should_ _'a brought ear plugs. You can't let him take control again. He says one of those words, you run. You get out. You don't let him turn you against your friends. Not again._

"Did you really think I wanted more of you?" the voice continued.

"What the hell?" Bucky asked quietly. If the doctor—Zemo, whoever he was—had wanted to kill the failed super-soldiers, why hadn't he just _asked_ Bucky where the base was? Why bomb the UN? Why kill T'Challa's father? Why frame Bucky? _Why?!_

"I'm grateful to them, though," Zemo said. "They brought you here."

A light came on. A small window in a blast door. Stark's arm came up, and Steve's shield was outta his hands even before Bucky had finished aiming his gun. Inside that window was a face; the face of the man who had forced Bucky to hurt, and kill. The face of a man who needed to answer for his crimes. A man who had to be brought to justice so that Bucky, and Steve, and Sam, and the others, could finally be free. Forever.

"Please, Captain," said Zemo over the base's intercom, as Steve's shield came bouncing back to him. "The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets."

"I'm betting I could beat that," said Stark.

"Oh, I'm sure you could, Mr Stark… given time. But then you'd never know why you came," Zemo gloated.

And suddenly, a horrible, cold, black feeling settled itself into the pit of Bucky's stomach. _It_ _'s not about me. It was never about me. I'm just the goddamn patsy. This is about Stark. Sokovia. Revenge for tearing a country apart. But how can this guy have his revenge without those super-soldiers? Unless… does he have something_ worse _? What could be worse than those killers?_ The answer came to him immediately. _Wanda. Maybe Hydra was doing more here than making Soldiers like me. Maybe they have a half-dozen Wandas frozen in cryo on some other level. Maybe the plan wasn_ _'t to kill Stark, but to utterly destroy him._

"You killed innocent people in Vienna just to bring us here?" Steve asked, stepping right up to that glass.

 _We_ _'re animals in a zoo,_ Bucky thought. _And Zemo_ _'s just sat outside the cage, watching._

"I've thought about nothing else for over a year." Zemo's voice was soft as silk and deadly as a cut-throat razor. It made every hair on Bucky's body stand on end. Another voice, cold and quiet, had told him things and made him terrible promises, seventy years ago. _Never trust the voice that speaks softly,_ he told himself. "I've studied you. I followed you." _Creepy._ "And now that you're standing here, I've just realised; there's a bit of green in the blue of your eyes." Zemo chuckled quietly, his gaze fixed on Steve's face. "How nice to find a flaw."

Crazy. The guy was insane. And Bucky didn't like how he was looking at Steve, like Captain America was some interesting bug to be dissected for analysis. He kept his gun steady, ready to open fire on whatever monstrosity Zemo was planning to unleash.

"You're Sokovian," said Steve. "Is that what this is about?"

 _Steve, you can_ _'t reason with him,_ Bucky thought. _You can_ _'t understand him. He's mad, and madmen can't be negotiated with._

"Sokovia was a failed state long before you blew it to hell," said Zemo. "No. I'm here because I made a promise."

"You lost someone."

"I lost _everyone._ And so will you."

Zemo's words hit Bucky like a sledgehammer and echoed around inside his head. Zemo had lost _everyone_. And he was going to make Stark, and Steve, pay for that. Bucky knew what it was like to lose everyone. To lose even himself. Would he have done any different than Zemo, given the option?

The image of a terrified, crying man in New York's Industry City came flickering once again across his mind. _Yes. I_ would _do it differently._ He finally knew what that seed inside his chest was. It was _hope_. That one day, things would be different. Better. That one day, the pain of everything he had been through would fade enough that he could make it through a night without seeing the faces of the dead in his mind. Hope that, one day, he could live again. Hope was the one thing a man had to keep him going, when nothing else was left. Once hope had died completely, it left behind a barren wasteland in which nothing else could grow. Not happiness, not love, not forgiveness or compassion.

 _I_ _'m not gonna let go of you,_ he promised the small seed of hope inside his chest.

Zemo did something. A quiet _click_ brought Bucky's mind into focus. One of the ancient monitors in the silo spluttered to life, showing white lettering on a black background. _16 December 1991._

"An empire toppled by its enemies can rise again," Zemo said. "But one which crumbles from within? That's dead. Forever."

 _No no no no._ The thought came from Bucky, or the Soldier, as the letters on the screen faded to show a CCTV camera's footage of an open stretch of road. _No no no!_ This couldn't be happening. It was his memory, but it wasn't a memory inside his head, it was a memory that had somehow leaked out into the real world where he couldn't keep it secret. The Soldier tried to rise up and take control, to squeeze with Bucky's finger the trigger hugging the rifle, to fill the monitor with lead and stop the memory before it could truly start. But Bucky was beyond the Soldier, now. A hazy film of memory draped itself around his mind, and as Stark said, _"I know this road,"_ and demanded _"What is this?"_ of Zemo, the memory pulled him back to December 1991.

 _Flash._

 _The scent of bike-oil was strong in his nose. The night was dark, the road dimly lit by lamps which made shadows dance outside the pools of pale light. From his vantage point in the forest, above the road, he heard the car engine before he saw its headlights, and kicked the bike into life. The car sped past, and he gave chase. Pulled up alongside the car. Smashed the passenger-side window. The driver veered, right into a wall. The front of the car crumpled, a concertina of screeching, screaming metal._

 _He checked the trunk first. It was locked. Not a problem for his metal hand. Inside the trunk was a metal briefcase; his target. He opened it up, found the five blue pouches as described by Colonel Karpov. His handler would be pleased. There was just one final part to his task._ _'Leave no witnesses.'_

 _The driver was out on the ground, crawling in pain, an older man who kept repeating,_ _'my wife, help my wife.' Bucky reached down to grab the man's hair, yanking his head back, pushing his body against the side of the car. The man looked up at him, brown eyes roving over his face. He opened his mouth, and with a pained gasp, asked, 'Sergeant Barnes?'_

 _The name was familiar. If he focused hard enough, he thought he could hear echoes of that name rattling around inside his head, a name spoken by dozens of different men and women in times long past. Whoever this_ _'Sergeant Barnes' was, the Soldier must look very much like him, to be mistaken for him so often._

' _Howard!' The woman's cry was full of terrified desperation. It drove away all thoughts of Sergeant Barnes and recalled the Soldier to his original purpose. The mission._

 _Two strikes with his cybernetic fist was all it took. His training had been extensive. He knew how to strike to shatter bone and force the hard material into a brain. Death would be swift. An accident. An injury received during the crash. With the deed done, he picked up the body and shoved it roughly into the driver_ _'s seat, letting it fall slumped against the steering wheel. It brought another cry from the woman. Now, it was her turn._

 _She offered no resistance. It was as if the sight of her dead husband had broken something inside her. She put up no fight. Did not beg or scream or curse, as so many of his victims tried. She merely sat there, a broken woman inside a broken car, and let death take her. Her throat was so soft that he didn_ _'t even need to use his metal fist. He just squeezed with his right hand until he felt her pulse stop and her body sag._

 _A nearby camera caught his attention. No witnesses. He pulled out his sidearm, took aim, and fired shots until the camera shattered. Then he took the briefcase from the trunk, straddled his bike, and looked back at the flaming wreckage, his mission report already prepared inside his mind._

 _Mission accomplished._

 _Flash._

He was back in the silo, his breaths coming fast, shallow, his nightmare real, alive, out here for the world to see. He'd killed dozens of people, but never had to face somebody who'd had to live with the loss he had caused. Right then, he would have given anything for his small, dark apartment back in Bucharest. For that cramped mine back in France, or even the shipping container he'd lived in during his flight to Europe. He wanted to find the smallest, darkest hole, crawl into it, and lay there until he died. Then, no matter how many more of his memories came out into the world, he wouldn't have to deal with anyone else. Nobody would see him.

Stark moved, and Bucky's gun came up, a reaction borne of instinct more than of self-preservation. As the gun came up, so did his eyes, and on Stark's face he saw pain, and hatred, and terrible aching grief. Bucky knew he deserved everything Stark wanted to do to him… but he also knew that it wasn't fair. All the things he'd seen, back in the war, all the things he'd done, the friends he'd lost; that had been him. Azzano and Austria and spending the next six months drinking heavily to try and wash away the echo of pain; that had been him, too. But the killings, the murders, the assassinations… that hadn't been him. Somebody else had done those things. Somebody else who wasn't even a person, a non-person Bucky had to share his body with. He'd just been along for the ride, an unwilling witness to the slaughter. For the first time since waking after Washington, he thought that he didn't deserve to die for what he'd been forced to do.

Steve caught Stark's arm, stopping him from taking a step. "Tony…"

Stark turned to Steve, but not before Bucky saw the unshed tears in his eyes. The hurt and betrayal painted liberally across his face. In a whispering voice, he asked, "Did you know?"

"I didn't know it was him," Steve countered, and Bucky felt his heart drop, because Steve was a _terrible_ liar. He'd known. Somehow, all along, he'd known. And he'd said nothing, even though Howard had been a good friend to him.

"Don't bullshit me, Rogers," hissed Stark, a wounded animal in the face of the only lie Bucky could ever recall his friend telling. "Did you know?"

A silence stretched out. It was a silence that didn't need an answer. Steve gave one anyway.

"Yes."

It was as if somebody had struck Stark in the gut. He took a step back, his shoulders slumping in tiredness and defeat. And because the guy had just found out his parents had been murdered by his friend's best friend, Bucky didn't see the ruse. Stark lashed out at Steve, punching him hard enough with his suited fist to send him flying away. By the time he turned towards Bucky, his mask was already up, his eyes glowing white. Stark's hand came up, and both Bucky and the Soldier pulled the rifle's trigger.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: Ugh, I hate re-hashing movie scenes. This has been the longest, hardest chapter to write so far. In fact, it took so long that I'm out of pre-written chapters and am now writing on the fly. Still aiming for 25 chapters total. I'm sure nobody wants to see a blow-by-blow account of the fight scene re-hashed (too much written action gets boring fast), so I'll try to spice things up a little in the next chapter. My aim is not to paint the objects in the picture, but to paint the empty spaces around them. Huge thanks to everyone who's reviewed and is still with me; each word of encouragement gives me the impetus to keep slogging through these difficult bits._


	23. Sanctuary

Running To You

 _23\. Sanctuary_

… _"Hold on, Bucky. We're almost there."…_

"Get out of here," Steve commanded, and Bucky didn't need to be told twice. Stark was fighting to kill. Tried to fire a rocket point-blank at Bucky's head, and only missed when Bucky managed to divert his arm launcher at the last second. But even as his terror grew, he'd clocked that Stark wasn't trying to kill _Steve_. Trying to disable Steve, sure, but not trying to truly hurt him. Steve might buy him the time he needed to get away.

So, he ran. And he hated himself for being coward enough to leave his friend behind. Another Winter Soldier mess that needed cleaning up, and now Steve was the one with the bucket and mop.

… _"_ _C'mon, Buck, stay with me. Stay awake."…_

The route to the exit had been destroyed by Stark's missile, but the Soldier knew of another way. Up, up he went. Climbing the maintenance platforms up the silo's disused launch chamber. Leaping from platform to platform like some goddamn computer game character. _Worst computer game ever._ Steve was keeping Stark busy down below. That was good. Stark could fly faster than Bucky could jump and climb. All he needed to do was get to the roof. Get to the quinjet. Get away. Find somewhere to hide. This time, he'd do it right. He'd hide somewhere alone, where Stark and all of his technology could never find him. He should have realised, long ago, that this was his fate; to be alone, forever.

… _"_ _Bucky, listen to me. You gotta stay awake. You've taken a blow to the head. C'mon pal, don't do this to me."…_

Fresh air blew across his face. Daylight poured down from the huge open hatch above. Daylight; and yet it seemed they'd been in that darkness for hours, days, down in the pit that now lay in ruin.

Suddenly, there was an explosion just off to his right; he saw something hit the hatch hinge, and the huge door started to fall down, down towards Bucky's head…

He let go. Surrendered himself to gravity because it was better than being crushed like an ant beneath Stark's heel. He fell, and hit a metal platform with enough force to wind him. Then Stark was there, flying up towards him, and the Soldier prompted him into action. He grasped a pipe that lay by his hand and struck out, aiming for Iron Man's head, a single thought tearing angrily through him as he swung. _I just want to be left alone!_

That damn suit gave the guy an unfair advantage. Bucky barely even made a dint. He was still gearing up for another swing when Stark grabbed him in a choke-hold and applied enough pressure to send his heart battering against his ribs in fear.

 _"_ Do you even remember them?" Stark whispered to him.

What could he say? That he saw every face he had killed, even though he didn't always remember their names, or how he'd killed them? That he'd looked for them, written about them, tried to do everything he could to honour their memories? Words in a book. That was all he had. Words were never enough.

"I remember all of them," he replied.

He pushed off from the platform, let gravity claim him again, felt the impact of Steve colliding with them both as they fell deeper into the man-made pit.

… _"_ _Remember Austria? Remember how you wouldn't ride out on that tank? You're not gonna let me carry you out of Siberia, are you?"…_

He fell. Winded more badly. Steve and Stark fell further, down to the very bottom of the silo. Steve's shield had been dropped, and lay now beside Bucky's head. That meant Steve was defenceless.

Stark and Steve exchanged words. Steve tried to stick up for Bucky, to tell Stark that this wasn't on him, that it was on Hydra, and their damned experiments. But Stark wouldn't listen. It was Leipzig all over again. And when the pair started fighting, when Stark had Steve on the ground, when Iron Man was doing his best to pummel Bucky's best friend's face with those iron fists, Bucky saw red all over again. He reached out for the shield, and leapt into the fray.

… _"_ _I'll buy you the strongest, most expensive bottle of Scotch if you just keep your eyes open. Talk to me, Buck. Say something."…_

He hit Stark with all the strength he could muster, reaching down inside himself to pull out the Soldier's aggression, trying to unleash what they had made him in order to save his friend. He threw the shield to Steve; caught it back; hit Stark again; threw the shield; caught it. A game of cat and mouse, until Stark struck Steve and knocked him away, and Bucky was left to face the man made of metal alone. _Not alone_. The Soldier was with him, feeding him strength. Anger that somebody else was trying to take everything away from him flooded through his body, directed his blocks and his strikes.

… _"_ _We'll go dancing. We'll find you a date. Maybe Sharon has a friend. I promise, we'll go dancing for real even though I still can't dance. And I won't complain if you wanna laugh at me. C'mon Bucky, we're almost at the jet. Just hang in there until I can get to the medical kit. Whatever you're holdin' onto, keep holding. I'm not gonna lose you again."…_

He poured everything he had into one last attack. Through the angry red haze he saw a circle of white light. _The heart of the beast_. The Soldier snarled and lashed out. He'd always hated the harsh, white light, and now he had something to aim for. Cybernetic fingers punched into the metal chest, grasped hold of that circle of light, squeezed and pulled and tried to extinguish it forever. The light spluttered as it give way to his strength… and then the sun exploded, blinding him with a hot yellow light, striking his arm, sending him spinning to the ground. His strength fled. Shakily, he pushed himself to his feet, looked up at his arm, and saw only the molten, charred remains of his shoulder. _His arm was gone._ Then, something hit him with enough force to knock him out.

 _He opened his eyes. Everything around him was white. His feet were dragging along the ground, and holding him up was Steve, Bucky_ _'s right arm slung around his shoulders, Steve's left arm supporting his waist. Steve's face was battered and bloody. He looked how Bucky felt._

 _"_ _Dreamin'?" Bucky mumbled._

 _"_ _No, Buck, you're not dreaming."_

 _"_ _Goin' dancin'?"_

 _Steve smiled. It wasn_ _'t a happy smile. "Yeah. We're going dancing. Real soon. Just need to get you back to the jet. We're almost there."_

 _Bucky managed to raise his head. His vision blurred, but he saw the outline of a dark object against the white of the snow. Cold. It was too cold. He started to shake. Tired. He was so tired. Couldn_ _'t remember the last time he was so tired. Was it Italy, maybe? Austria? London? Washington? Maybe he could just lie down for a few minutes. Get his strength back._

 _"_ _Hey, none of that," Steve admonished, tightening his grip. "On your feet, soldier."_

 _"_ _You're not the boss of me." A bubble of laughter burst from his lips. Didn't know why that was so funny. Not when everything hurt so bad. Even laughing hurt, and the laughter quickly devolved into a pained cough, cut off abruptly by an agonised gasp._

 _Suddenly, it was all too much. Too painful. Too tired. Too cold. He_ _'d fought for too long. Now, he needed to rest. He closed his eyes._

He opened his eyes. Above him, with his back to him, was Stark. Right in front of Stark was Steve. Steve, who looked like he'd just had the crap kicked out of him. Steve, who pushed himself to his feet, adopted a feeble, wobbly fighting stance, and said, "I can do this all day."

Because that was what Steve did. Bullies. Nazis. Tony Stark. It didn't matter to him how big the other guy was; all that mattered was that Steve still had strength to stand, and throw a punch, and draw breath, and for as long as he could do all of those things, he would fight. All their lives, people had thought Bucky was the stronger of the two. But that wasn't true. Real strength was getting up every time you were knocked down, knowing that the other guy was bigger, and stronger, and that getting up would invariably mean getting knocked down again, and again. Real strength was knowing that as long as there was something to fight for, there could be no surrender. Once you started running from bullies, they never let you stop.

When Stark's arm came up for a blast of whatever the hell had sent Bucky flying, he acted without thinking. His whole body ached, and his cybernetic arm was gone. He was too exhausted to stand. But he could still be a distraction. He could still give Steve a chance. So, he lashed out with his right hand. Struck Stark's boot. Nothing more than a love-tap. Probably had as much power as the flap of a butterfly's wings. But it did the job. Stark turned, and the last thing Bucky saw was an iron boot come flying towards his face.

… _"_ _Bucky? Bucky? Oh… hell."…_

o - o - o - o - o

Bucky was a dead weight. Steve ignored his own aches and pains and focused on keeping his grip on Bucky's arm, on his waist, on moving his own feet forward one step at a time. The last time he'd taken a beating like this was when he'd gone up against the Winter Soldier in Washington. Both times, he'd taken a beating to protect his friend. The only thing that differed now was who had performed said beating.

He looked over his shoulder. No sign of Stark. Not yet, anyway. With his arc reactor down, he wouldn't be able to move so easily. Wouldn't be able to fly. Wouldn't be able to fire his weapons. Hopefully wouldn't be able to get out an SOS. To call for back-up before Steve could get Bucky away from this place. Somewhere safe. The Bahamas, maybe. Bucky would like that, after the cold of Siberia.

Glancing down at his unconscious friend, he swallowed the lump in his throat. Kicking a man when he was down was the lowest of the low. Even most of those bullies he'd stood up to over the years had at least waited for him to get back on his feet before throwing another punch. Even most of those bullies had standards… low standards, to be sure. Tony wasn't a bully… he was just trying to murder Steve's best friend.

He felt his jaw clench. _Don_ _'t think about Tony. Not now. Think about Bucky. Get him out of here. Get him the help he needs. Worry about Tony later. Tony will live. Bucky… No, Bucky will live too. He can't die. Not now. Not when you've only just got him back._

So full of grief and guilt were his thoughts that he didn't see the second quinjet until he almost walked right into it. _Darn!_ It was a smaller model, a sleeker one, and all around it were footprints, two different sets… and one of those sets went straight up to the quinjet Steve and Bucky had 'borrowed' from Tony's team, back in Leipzig. Following the footprints, he found they went right up to the loading ramp. The open loading ramp.

 _Seriously?!_ A guy couldn't even leave his vehicle unlocked _in the middle of Siberia?_ Was nowhere safe, these days?

Full of reservation, he stepped around the side of the quinjet and looked into the cabin. There, waiting with an expression of calm patience on his face, was King T'Challa. His cat-like mask was on the bench beside him, and he lifted his head as the pair approached. Steve hefted his friend, gripping Bucky a little more tightly. He'd already fought T'Challa once, and had no desire to do it again. In fact, he didn't think he was capable of it. Not now. Not when his entire body was one giant, aching bruise. Maybe… maybe he could offer himself in exchange for Bucky's freedom. Maybe he could try to cut a deal. Work something out. Work _anything_ out.

 _There_ _'s no working this one out, Steve. The guy thinks Bucky killed his father. He's followed us across the continent. This is it. The end of the line._

"I don't want to fight you," he told T'Challa.

"I don't want to fight you either, Captain," T'Challa said, his voice as calm as a pool of deep water.

"I don't want to fight you, but I won't let you kill my friend."

"I think there has been more than enough killing for now," Wakanda's king agreed.

Steve held his breath. Could scarcely believe what he was hearing. T'Challa wasn't gonna try to pick up where he'd left off? But… why? Bucky was unconscious. Steve was in no shape to fight a school-girl, much less a vibranium-suited warrior. Maybe T'Challa had something else planned. Life imprisonment. Some tiny cell for Bucky. Some torturous nightmare behind bars. Steve swallowed another lump. He couldn't let that happen. The thought of Bucky in a cage for the rest of his life was even worse than the thought of Bucky killed in cold blood. His friend didn't deserve either of those fates. He deserved freedom.

"I can't let you take Bucky," Steve told him, putting all the defiance he could muster into his stare.

"Indeed. Even if I _wanted_ to take him, my jet is not large enough for a second passenger."

Steve stared at the dark face for a long moment. Then the king's words sank into his tired mind. " _Second_ passenger?"

"After Mr Zemo set you and Mr Stark against each other, he attempted to take his own life. I stopped him. I will take him back to Berlin, and he will answer for his crimes. All of them."

"You _know_?"

T'Challa nodded. "I heard it all." _Thank God!_ "What your friend was forced to do was terrible. It is clear to me now that he has been yet another victim in a grief-driven plot for vengeance. I've seen what vengeance can do, how it can turn friend against friend… and I do not wish to tarnish my soul with such blackness. Turning in Mr Zemo will satisfy my father's memory, my peoples' demand for justice, and it will clear your friend of at least this one atrocity."

"Thank you." Never had he said those words and meant them more than he did now.

"You do not need to thank me, Captain." Something passed across T'Challa's eyes. It might have been guilt, or regret. It was hard to read the king. "I made a terrible mistake which very nearly cost your friend his life. Had my own thirst for vengeance been satisfied, your friend would be dead, and I would be a murderer. I hope to make that up to Mr Barnes."

"That's not necessary—"

"It is," T'Challa interrupted. He stood, and gestured to the cockpit. "I took the liberty of programming a flight plan into your navigational computer. It is a long route; you will be in the air for twelve hours, but that is how long I will need to make preparations."

"Preparations for _what_?" Steve asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"I would like to extend an offer of sanctuary to Mr Barnes, and to you and your friends. It would be my honour to welcome you to Wakanda. And perhaps, together, we can begin to right some of the wrongs which have been visited upon all of us."

 _Sanctuary._ The thought made Steve's head spin. It wasn't the Bahamas, but Wakanda was remote, its people reclusive, a wealthy nation on a poor continent. Wakanda's defence satellites kept prying eyes away… they could be safe there. They could _all_ be safe there. Perhaps T'Challa's doctors could get Bucky the help he needed. Get Steve's friend back once and for all. Did they have decent Scotch, in Wakanda? Looking at T'Challa's face, he decided it was best not to push his luck that far.

"It would be my honour to accept your offer, with my gratitude," Steve agreed.

"Then it is settled." T'Challa stood up and was all business now that an agreement had been reached. "I will tell Mr Stark that whilst I was securing Mr Zemo—who was unfortunately able to damage my long-range communications equipment whilst trying to steal my jet—for transit, you and Mr Barnes were able to make your escape. I will take Mr Zemo back to Berlin and inform the CIA of Mr Stark's location, so that they can come and collect him. I will inform my people to prepare for your arrival twelve hours from now. And I hope to see both you and Mr Barnes safely in Wakanda."

Steve stammered out another thanks as T'Challa picked up his vibranium helmet and left. Then, for the first time since walking into Bucky's apartment in Bucharest, he let himself truly relax. But not too much. There was still work to be done.

First thing he did was kick a pressure panel in the side of the jet which released a low medical bed, and lowered Bucky down onto it. Inside his chest, his heart screamed at him to see to Bucky, to fix his friend's injuries and make sure he wasn't in any pain. Inside his head, his brain pointed out that seeing to Bucky's injuries had to take second seat to making a safe escape. No point making sure his friend was okay if it delayed their departure long enough to let Stark see them escape unchallenged by T'Challa.

With Bucky out of the way and worryingly silent for once, Steve hopped into the pilot's seat and began flipping switches. T'Challa's flight plan had them zig-zagging across the continent for the next twelve hours. Lucky the jet was powered by one of Stark's arc reactors. The thing could run for days in stealth mode.

He pushed the button which lifted the loading ramp, and waited for the sound of it locking into place. The engines were primed for take-off in seconds, and as he pulled back on the steering column, he watched the vista of white grow smaller and smaller. The Hydra facility's heavy steel doors disappeared from view, and he briefly wondered how many other secret facilities might be out there, abandoned during the fall of Hydra, waiting for someone like Zemo to stumble upon their secrets and exploit them for them own purposes.

With a sigh, he looked over his shoulder, at the man unconscious on the bed. He flicked on the auto-pilot switch and painfully pushed himself to his feet. Worrying about Hydra could wait for another time. Right now, he had a friend to help.

o - o - o - o - o

A volcano of pain erupted inside Bucky's head. It spread down his spine, spewed fiery lava across his ribs, did _something_ to his shoulder and finally terminated in his toes. But despite everything, it was a healthy pain. The pain of a man who'd been beaten to within an inch of his life. Not the pain of Austria, and the cold metal table. Not the pain which had come in the months after, where it felt like every bone in his body had started growing again, like he was being slowly torn apart from the inside out. No, it wasn't that sort of pain.

He opened his eyes expecting to see the dirty concrete roof of the silo. Instead, he found himself looking up at some clean metal ceiling, his only companion a regular, quiet _beeping_ sound.

"What the—"

He tried to sit up. Grunted in pain. Thought better of moving, and lay back down. A moment later, a face appeared. A very bruised, bloody face. It was a sight for sore eyes. And sore legs, and arms, and ribs…

"Buck. Thank God. You've been out cold for the past three hours."

"What happened?" He turned his head to look around. He was in the quinjet. On some sort of bed. There was no sign of Stark. Relief washed over him. Or maybe that was morphine. Despite the pain, his mind felt pleasantly numb. Definitely morphine.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Steve asked, lowering himself to the floor to kneel by Bucky's side.

"You promising to take me dancing." There was such worry on his friend's face that he couldn't help but take a gentle jab. "Though, I'm gonna hold it against you if you step on my toes."

Steve laughed, a real, genuine laugh of relief. "You really had me worried back there. I thought I was gonna lose you."

"Maybe I should get myself a t-shirt printed," he quipped. " _If found, return to Captain America._ "

"I was thinking more of a tracking collar," Steve smiled. "Like the type they put on tigers in the wild."

"Mmhmm," Bucky agreed. "Got any more morphine?"

"Yeah, but it's too soon to give you another shot."

"Spoil-sport," he sulked. He took a deep breath, or tried to. His ribs didn't seem to want to let him. "So, what happened?"

"I managed to stop Tony," Steve said. There was something more. Something Steve wasn't telling him. Bucky could see it, in his friend's downcast eyes. Steve wasn't the kinda guy who looked away easily.

"How?"

"Broke his arc reactor."

"His what?"

"That glowing circle of light that powers his suit."

"Oh." So, the Soldier had been right to go for that light after all.

The memory came crashing back in. _Oh god._ He looked down at his left arm. It was gone. His arm was gone. Again. There was a picture in his mind of how human beings had to look. Humans had a body, a head, two legs and two arms. Now, he didn't fit that mould. It was like the time the Hydra doctors had taken his arm away to upgrade it, but this time, nobody would bring his arm back because it was _gone_.

"Bucky, calm down." Steve lay a hand on his chest, holding him immobile against the bed.

That steady beeping noise had become a whole lot faster, irregular. It was only when he looked into Steve's worried face that he realised he'd started hyperventilating. He tried to slow his breathing, to think of something to take his mind away from thoughts of Hydra and being crippled for the rest of his life. _Christmas. Mom_ _'s apple pie. Dixieland on the gramophone. Janet playing with Bonnie, whilst Mary-Ann mothers Steve._

The beeping slowed. His breathing resumed a more regular rhythm. He opened his eyes and blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. His arm was gone, but he still had Steve. It was a small price to pay.

"Good," Steve encouraged quietly. "Just keep breathing like that. You've taken some pretty bad knocks."

"I've had worse," he lied. "How bad is it?"

Steve reached up to the wall above Bucky and pulled something down. It turned out to be a small medical monitor, which he held up for Bucky to see. It showed an outline of a body, various red patches blotched all over it like a bad case of chickenpox. _Chickenpox_. He'd had it when he was eight, but not as bad as Janet had it when she was ten. It'd kept her off school for nearly four weeks; Bucky had stayed with her every single day. Reading to her. Going through her school books with her. Drowning her in calamine lotion when the itching drove her to floods of tears.

"Three broken ribs, hairline fractures all along your tibia, a shattered cheekbone and these," he said, gestured at several red spots around the centre of the picture, "I think denote soft tissue damage. Internal bleeding. Not sure how extensive it is. What I'm most worried about is that head injury."

"It's nothing I won't heal from. How're you?"

Steve shrugged. "I've had worse."

"Yeah, I remember." He kicked himself when sadness danced across Steve's eyes. But maybe it was time to finally hash this out. Clear the air once and for all. Make sure that while they were looking forward, they didn't have to keep looking back. "I'm sorry for shooting you three times."

"Four times."

Bucky winced. "And I'm sorry I'm so bad at keeping track of how many times I hurt you and your friends. Maths was never my strong point. But you know that."

"Look, Buck. As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to forgive. Hydra made you do those things. You could've killed me, but you didn't. And afterwards, you came back. That's all that matters. But if forgiveness is what you need, then I forgive you. For everything." Steve paused, thoughtful, gaze turned inward. Then, he smiled. "For everything except letting Mary-Ann cover me with iodine that Christmas after my mom died."

"Heh. That was pretty funny. I always thought it was a shame the two of you never got together."

 _Idiot_ , he told himself, when that sad look returned to Steve's face. Despite finding someone to care about in Sharon, he obviously still carried a huge torch for Peggy. Hell, who _wouldn_ _'t_ carry a torch for Peggy? She'd been one hell of a woman, and Steve had been smitten.

He cleared his throat. "So. Where are we going?"

"Wakanda."

"Strange. I thought you just said 'Wakanda.'"

"I did."

"Did _you_ take a few blows to the head, too?" Steve was supposed to be the sensible one. Had he forgotten that? Had they somehow switched roles, in that silo? Did that mean _Bucky_ had to be the sensible one, now? God help them both, if that was the case.

Steve shook his head. "T'Challa was waiting for us, when we left the silo."

 _You mean, when you dragged me out of the silo._ Guilt balled up its fist and punched him in the gut. He'd passed out. Left Steve to clean up another of his messes. Good job Steve was better at cleaning than Bucky.

"How are we still alive?"

"T'Challa heard everything Zemo said to us. He's taken the guy into custody… probably halfway back to Berlin by now. He feels bad about nearly killing you, and wants to try to make amends. He's offered us sanctuary in Wakanda. All of us. I thought you wouldn't mind, so I accepted his offer."

Bucky offered a noncommittal grunt. It wasn't the Bahamas, but if it was safe, then that was all that mattered. "What's it like? Wakanda, I mean."

"I've no idea. But given the fact that it's in Africa's tropical zone, I think 'jungle' is likely to be a defining feature."

"Scotch?"

Steve smiled. "We'll find out when we get there."

 _Wakanda. Home._ The two words didn't fit together so well. He had vague memories of being in jungles before—Mexico, amongst others—and what he remembered most was humidity and insects; two of his least favourite things. Still, it would be a small price to pay, for sanctuary. He could survive the heat and insects of the jungle, if it meant being safely hidden from the world. Probably wouldn't be anywhere to go dancing, though…

He looked at Steve, who was feigning interest in the medical monitor. There was an air of ineffable sadness around his friend. Bucky could see it every time he looked in Steve's eyes. The past week had, perhaps, been even harder on Steve than it had on Bucky himself. For the past two years, Bucky had had nothing but himself and his notebooks; his life had been punctuated by brief friendships, ephemeral as a mayfly. Losing everything wasn't a tragedy when you had nothing left to lose. But Steve… Steve had lost friendships, this week. He'd lost the support of the public, the goodwill of the government, and the respect of somebody he'd called friend. And when Bucky glanced around for Steve's shield, he found it as absent as his own cybernetic arm.

"My ribs ache," he said. "Help me sit up."

Steve glanced up at him. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"Yeah. I can't breathe properly flat on my back."

Bucky took hold of Steve's hand and felt his friend slide an arm beneath his shoulders. Then he was upright, the world spinning around him as blood rushed away from his head. He closed his eyes until the vertigo passed, then leant back against the wall of the jet, letting it support his weight. Experimentally, he took a couple of deep breaths, and though it hurt, he found breathing much easier now.

"Better?" Steve asked, sitting back on his heels.

"Yeah." He eyed his friend for a moment. Though the bruises on Steve's face hadn't started fading yet, they would, soon enough. But Bucky knew, better than anyone, that it wasn't the bruises on the outside which hurt the most and took the longest to heal. It was the bruises on the inside which caused the most damage. "Steve?"

"Hmm?"

"After I blacked out, I had a dream." He shifted a little on the bed, tried to make himself more comfortable. After a moment, he gave up. It was useless. He was gonna have to endure pain and discomfort until his body healed. _Small price to pay_ , he reminded himself. "I dreamt Stark told you that you didn't deserve your shield. And that you left it behind."

When Steve spoke, there was a slight crack in his voice. One that Bucky didn't think was for the shield. "That wasn't a dream."

"He was wrong. You _do_ deserve it. I may not know about everything you've been up to these past few years, but I know enough, and I know what you did for the world, back in 1945. "

"This isn't about that, Bucky. I lied to a friend because I was too much of a coward to tell him the truth."

Bucky thought about reaching out to put a hand on his friend's shoulder, but even the _thought_ made his ribs complain angrily. Besides, he didn't think he could manage movement without toppling over. His entire right side felt too heavy; his left side, too light. This 'only having one arm' business was gonna take one hell of an adjustment period. Swallowing the lump in his throat over his missing limb, he ploughed on, re-focusing on his friend.

"You made a mistake, Steve. That makes you human. That serum Erskine gave you? It made you _better_. Not _perfect_. Howard understood that. Peggy understood it. I understand it. You're allowed to make mistakes. Besides, what if you'd told Stark about me killin' his parents? What if Stark had come after me, and found me right after Washington, and managed to get his revenge? You'd be right back here, kicking yourself again for spilling a secret that got your friend killed. Right?"

Steve looked at him, blue eyes wary. It was like he didn't _want_ to be cheered up. Like he felt he didn't deserve it. Bucky knew what that was like. "I guess."

"You were forced to make a choice. Keep a secret, or tell it. Either way, someone was gettin' hurt. There was no good choice to make, but you made one anyway, just like you made one back on that Hydra plane that would've put an end to New York. And I don't mind telling you that I'm glad you made the choice you did, and that you were there to stick up for me. I'm sorry you lost your friend, but I'm glad I have you looking out for me. You deserve that shield a thousand times over."

"It was just a piece of metal," Steve sighed at last. "I'd rather have friends."

"We'll get them back," Bucky assured him. "Wherever they are, we'll find them. And then I'll get you a Frisbee. You can paint it red, white and blue. Maybe throw it at Sam for target practise."

His words finally teased a smile out of Steve. "Thanks, Buck. But first, let's concentrate on getting to Wakanda and getting you some medical attention. I'd like someone to take a look at that head of yours."

Bucky shrugged… or, he tried to. Shrugging with only one arm wasn't the same, and his left shoulder didn't seem to want to move. "Like I said, it's nothing I won't heal from. I heal pretty fast."

"That's not what I mean. There are words in your head that unleash the Winter Soldier. I'd feel a lot more comfortable if they were out."

"Oh." He hadn't thought about that. His missing arm had been the main focus of his thoughts. How he'd adapt to living without it. But Steve raised a valid point. The Winter Soldier might be sleeping, but he wasn't gone. "Yeah. I guess that's a good idea."

Steve lay a reassuring hand on his right shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. "If you're okay for the moment, I wanna head back to the cockpit and take control of the jet. The autopilot can handle most of the flying, but I'd like to be near the controls just in case."

"Sure." He glanced to the co-pilot's chair. "Want some company?"

"You don't have to move around on my account."

"I'm not." It wasn't a _total_ lie. "I'd just… I'd like to be able to see where I'm going. For once."

"Alright," Steve caved immediately. Probably meant Bucky looked pretty bad, if Steve was giving in so easily. Steve was normally one stubborn S.O.B.

He managed to make it into the co-pilot's chair with a little support from Steve, and sank down to look at… nothing. Somewhere between leaving the silo and regaining consciousness, night had happened, and now there was nothing outside the jet except velvety black, the stars hidden by a blanket of heavy grey cloud. But that was fine. Night was like winter; it wouldn't last forever. Soon, the dawn would come, and then he'd be able to see where he was going. He'd be able to see the path that led to a life beyond Hydra once and for all.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: Many thanks to the Guest reviewers for your comments; I appreciate every moment somebody spends writing a piece of feedback, even if it's just a sentence or two to let me know whether you're enjoying the story. Also, sincerest apologies if I've made any glaring errors in this chapter. I've just written 22k words in four days, and I'm mentally knackered. Hopefully I've caught any mistakes during editing, but if not… please be gentle! :-S_


	24. Duty

Running To You

 _24\. Duty_

Steve paced back and forth outside the royal throne room. He seemed to be spending more and more time being nervous and edgy, these days. But then, he had a lot to be nervous about. He'd been three days in Wakanda, and although the doctors here had patched Bucky up as best they could, and the servants had settled the two of them into palatial bedrooms, Steve had been virtually kept in the dark about what was happening in the rest of the world. He'd always known that Wakanda was insular, but he hadn't realised its people were so secretive. To say he was frustrated about the lack of communication was an understatement.

An hour ago, he'd been sent word that T'Challa was back and wanted to speak with him. He'd been summoned to the royal throne room, and left to wait outside its ornate doors. He'd never been in a throne room before. Never even been in a palace before. There was probably decorum and etiquette to be stood on, but he didn't have a clue what said etiquette entailed. Right now, he couldn't bring himself to care that much about decorum, either. He needed to know what had been happening whilst he'd been forced to sit idly twiddling his thumbs waiting for somebody to drop a scrap of _anything_ he could use to formulate a plan.

 _The star-spangled man with a plan._ The strapline of his old USO show pulled a grimace across his face. _Chorus girl_ , they'd called him, when he'd wanted nothing more than to be a soldier. _Ballet dancer_ , when he couldn't even manage a simple two-step with a pretty dame. He'd played the role of a PR stunt man for long enough to know when somebody was trying to shoehorn him into doing it again. For all Secretary Ross' speeches about reassurance and compromise, Steve had seen only one thing, when presented with the Accords: the Avengers, dancing on the world stage to somebody else's theme music.

The palace doors swung open, pulling Steve from his thoughts about the Accords. He ceased pacing, smoothed the grimace from his face, attempted to compose himself. T'Challa's people had furnished him with an entire wardrobe of clothes, everything from the traditional Wakandan style, to contemporary attire. When he'd dressed that morning, he'd opted for blue jeans and a plain white shirt. Now, he kinda wished he'd at least picked the good shoes. Compared to the immaculately polished servants, he felt considerably under-dressed.

One of the doormen ushered him into the throne room, where T'Challa, dressed in a long, silver and green shirt which complimented his dark skin, was seated on a low-backed chair. The throne beside him was empty. By his side, a man named T'Keni—T'Challa's most trusted aide, Steve had learnt on arrival in the country—was speaking quietly. When he saw Steve approach, T'Challa looked up and smiled, and gestured T'Keni back.

"Captain. Thank you for coming." T'Challa rose to offer his hand. Steve still didn't know whether he was supposed to bow, so he just settled for a handshake and hoped one of the servants might educate him later about royal etiquette. "I apologise for keeping you waiting outside for so long."

"No apology is necessary, your Highness," he assured the man. Lord, T'Challa had done so much for them already; Steve would've waited a whole _day_ to see the king. "How was your trip back from Berlin?"

"Short, thankfully. It is good to be home." He gestured to the empty throne. "Although I automatically became King in name after my father died, there are still many rituals which must be adhered to. My crowning ceremony should have taken place already. My advisers do not like that I delayed the coronation for the sake of what they deem, 'outside matters.'"

"I'm sorry to hear you've been having difficulties," Steve replied. _Small talk. Do the small talk and be patient. This is a king; you can_ _'t just demand he tell you everything you want to know._

"My people will be more comfortable once I am securely on the throne," T'Challa assured him. He gave a small, rueful smile as his brown eyes danced over the ornate throne. "It is a big seat to fill. I hope to do my father proud."

"I regret that I never got the chance to meet him. From what little I know of him, he seemed an honourable man."

"That he was." T'Challa's gaze steeled. Steve recognised that look. It was the same look he'd practised in his mirror, after his mom had died. The look of a man who was determined to put on a brave face to fool the world. A face that his best friend had seen through every time. "Will you walk with me for a while, Captain?"

"For as long as you like, your Highness." It was the least he could do for the man who'd offered them sanctuary.

He followed T'Challa as the king set a slow pace down one of the corridors leading out of the room. For a long moment, they said nothing. T'Challa seemed deep in thought, and Steve didn't want to interrupt his mental wandering. When T'Challa finally turned to glance at him, a small smile pulled at his dark lips.

"There are things we must discuss, Captain. Some of these things are dangerous things. I hope you will be able to advise and guide me. Once, I had my father to turn to for guidance. Now, I must settle for the royal advisers. They know how to run a country even better than I, but there are some things too dangerous to become common knowledge."

Steve felt a lump form in his throat. T'Challa was one of the strongest, bravest, most determined men he'd ever met. What in the world could scare _him_?

"First," the king said, "I will tell you of my last day in Berlin. I'm sure you are keen to hear news from the outside, and I know my people would not have been much of a source of information to you. Most Wakandans have little interest in what lies beyond our borders. My father was seen as both eccentric and visionary. And that, too, is a mantle I hope to wear myself.

"After I had turned over Mr. Zemo, and advised Mr. Ross of Mr. Stark's location, I gave a statement of everything I saw and heard in Siberia, and explained how you and Mr. Barnes were able to make your getaway whilst I was securing Mr. Zemo. I do not believe the CIA wanted to release the news that it was Mr. Zemo, and not your friend, who was responsible for the bombing in Vienna, but they had to save face after Mr. Barnes escaped from custody. A press conference was held, in which news of Mr. Zemo's actions was released, and Mr. Barnes' involvement has been quietly swept under the rug. Whilst nobody said it overtly, the intimation was that Mr. Barnes was merely an accomplice, and Mr. Zemo the mastermind behind the bombing. I do not believe, however, that they will ever stop pursuing your friend. I heard the word 'justice' thrown around a lot, but I believe there is more to it than that. I believe there are those who would study him, perhaps even try to use him, if they were given the opportunity."

Steve felt his jaw clench tightly, and tried to work it loose. He was no stranger to corruption, not after Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D., but knowing that there were people out there who would gladly use the _victim_ of an atrocity to commit further atrocities, cut him deep. It was at times like this that a guy could really learn to lose faith in humanity.

"Thank you, for telling me," he managed to say through clenched teeth. It took another moment for his jaw to fully relax. "Are you sure you still want us here? If it's gonna cause you trouble…"

"If I wasn't sure before, I am now," T'Challa assured him. "The thought of Mr. Barnes out there, in his current condition, at the mercy of men like Secretary Ross… let us just say, it does not appeal." A deep sigh issued from the king's lips, and Steve felt a moment of guilt prickle inside his chest. The guy hadn't even been crowned yet, and he was already carrying not only his own weight on his shoulders, but Steve's weight, too. "Come. There is something you must see."

He followed T'Challa along a series of twisting, winding, identical corridors that even his eidetic memory struggled to map. When they came at last to a door, to either side of which stood an armed guard in what he guessed was traditional Wakandan garb, the king gestured the men aside. He punched a long number into a keypad on the wall, and then waited for the door to slide open. Inside was a small room, with a single spotlight in the ceiling, and small door halfway up the far wall, like the door of a dumbwaiter in an old building. Only, this door had a combination lock adorned with unfamiliar symbols around its outer edges.

Politeness made Steve avert his gaze while T'Challa manipulated the lock, and he didn't look up until the door swung open. When he _did_ look up, his breath caught in his throat. There, in the middle of the wall safe, behind some sort of electric field which gave out a low hum, was a red book with a gold star on the front. He didn't need to ask; Bucky had already told him about that book.

"I confiscated this from Mr. Zemo, when I apprehended him," T'Challa explained. He reached out to tap in another code in another keypad, and the electric field died away. The king pulled out the book, and offered it to Steve. "At first, I thought to keep it. To safeguard it, so that it could never be used again. After returning from Berlin, I realised it was not my place to decide the fate of this book. I give you this now, trusting that you and Mr. Barnes will best know what to do with it."

Steve nodded, and accepted the book. There had been no need for T'Challa to tell him this. He could have kept the book and left Bucky and Steve none the wiser. His estimation of the king quickly rose.

"I told Mr. Ross that I destroyed the book before leaving Siberia," T'Challa continued. "I thought it would only be a matter of time before Mr. Zemo told them I took it from him."

"Thank you. I know how difficult it must be for you, a man of honour, to lie to others."

"To lie was a lesser evil than to hand over that book. Whatever you do with it… I would prefer not to know. If asked, I can honestly say that I do not know its whereabouts."

"I understand."

"There are two more things I have come into possession of," said T'Challa, as he led the way out of the vault and back down the corridor. "One is a message, transmitted to one of our communications posts on the border of Wakanda. I believe it is a message intended for you."

"What makes you think that?"

T'Challa smiled, and handed over a slip of paper onto which strange characters had been printed. "We are not in the habit of receiving messages written in Russian."

Neither was Steve. He didn't speak Russian, but he knew a guy who did.

"The second thing I have come into possession of, is knowledge." Another piece of paper followed. No letters this time, but a series of numbers. At first, Steve thought it was a code. Then he recognised the first numbers as GPS co-ordinates, and the second as a time and date. The third set was the longest, an alphanumeric sequence whose purpose was a mystery. "The prison where your friends are being held is called 'The Raft.' Those co-ordinates will lead you there. A CIA helicopter is due to make a supply drop at that date and time. The sequence at the end is the single-use identification code the helicopter will transmit to be given authorised landing at The Raft."

Steve looked up at T'Challa, his mouth literally hanging open. "How?"

"My resources are considerable," the king informed him. _Considerable indeed!_

"Your Highness, thank you. I don't know what to say."

"My forces cannot help you, Captain. I am more than willing to allow you and your friends to make your home here for as long as you deem necessary, but I cannot be seen to be taking action which puts my country in jeopardy. For now, we must… batten down the hatches, I believe the saying goes. For a time, we will disappear back into our own borders, to allow the fallout from Lagos and Vienna to finally settle. And when it does, we will emerge stronger. Wiser. With friends we can trust."

"You can count me amongst those friends, your Highness. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, I'll be there for you as you've been there for us."

"Thank you, Captain. I will bear that in mind. For now, I must return to my throne room." Another sigh escaped him, a wearier one this time. "Kings must keep long hours, and I am not even crowned yet. I hope you, and your friends, will all be back in time for the ceremony."

Steve offered a slight bow from the waist as T'Challa disappeared. He'd taken up enough of the king's time. Now, he had to go have a long conversation with Bucky.

o - o - o - o - o

 _Scratch scratch scratch_ went the nib of the pen on paper. When Bucky reached the end of the sentence, he punctuated it with a full stop and used his teeth to put the lid back on the pen before the ink could leak out. Then, he sat up straight and studied the open book perched atop the knees of his crossed legs. There was no doubt about it; his handwriting was just terrible. Always had been. Now that he didn't have his left hand to steady the page, it was even worse. Legible to his eyes, but probably not to many others.

T'Keni had very kindly sent a trustworthy Wakandan to retrieve his memories from the left luggage locker in Leipzig airport. Bucky had pleaded with the guy for hours before he'd finally relented. It felt good, to have his memories finally back in his hands... his _hand_. He'd spent much of the past three days—the times when he hadn't been undergoing psychological analysis and intense physiotherapy—re-reading his memories, particularly his exploits of the past two years. His time grape-picking in France, visiting museums in Geneva and Zurich, hiking through the forest roads of Transylvania… it had been a chapter of his life. One amongst many. How the hell did autobiographers manage to condense an entire life into one book? Bucky had a dozen, and they still weren't enough.

He looked up at a knock on his bedroom door, and called, "Come in." Steve stuck his head into the room, and the rest of him followed a moment later, looking more rested and less bruised than Bucky had seen in three days. Wakanda, Bucky decided, agreed with Steve. Hell, it agreed with Bucky himself. The country might be a jungle, but the royal palace was only one step down from something out of a _Disney_ film. Huge, sprawling, air-conditioned… It was a goddamn luxury compared to the past seventy years of his life.

"Hey man," he said, closing his book and setting it aside. As Steve approached, he unfolded his legs and slid to side of the huge bed, to sit on the edge of it. Wakandans really seemed to like their beds. And their cushions. He'd had to wade through two dozen animal-print cushions just to _find_ his bed, during the first night he'd spent in his room.

"Writing more memories?" Steve asked as he pulled a chair over and settled himself into it.

"Yeah." Bucky took a deep breath—was momentarily pleased when it only caused his rapidly-mending ribs to twinge a little—and ran his hand through his hair, tucking it back behind his ear. Needed a haircut soon. Seriously needed one. "A lot's happened, since Bucharest. You'd be surprised how therapeutic it is, writing stuff down. You should give it a try sometime."

"I might," Steve smiled wanly. "I hate to intrude on your private writing time, but I wondered if you could translate something for me. Something in Russian."

"Uh, sure." Bucky accepted a piece of paper held out by his friend, and scanned it quickly before his brain kicked into translation mode. " _Dearest cousin, I hope this message finds you well. Sorry I had to skip town so early; you know what it_ _'s like when duty calls._

 _Work_ _'s going to keep me busy for a while. Don't call me; I'll call you. Looking forward to catching up and hearing about how your night with that brunette went. Next time, you should come visit me here. Much as I love the city-life, I think the fresh air would agree with you more._

 _Don_ _'t worry, I'll keep an eye on the family while you're gone._

 _Nathaniel._

 _P.S. Met a pretty nurse I think you_ _'ll like. Can't wait to introduce you._

He looked up after he'd finished reading, and saw his friend visibly sag in the chair, as if somebody had just turned his spine to jelly.

"What does it mean?"

"It's a message from Nat," Steve smiled. "She's safe, and Sharon's with her. They're with Barton's family, out on the farm. Nathaniel is Clint's youngest son, named after Natasha. She must be paranoid about the message being intercepted, so she sent it in Russian knowing you could translate it, and that the contents wouldn't mean anything to anyone who isn't close to Barton."

"I don't remember there being a brunette," Bucky said. "I would'a remembered that."

"I think she means you. She couldn't mention you by name."

"Oh." Made sense. Smart girl. "Well, I'm glad your friend's safe. And that Sharon's safe. Two down, four to go. Right?"

"There's something else."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "There's _always_ something else. Alright, hit me. I've been catching curve-balls since I left Bucharest. One more won't hurt."

Steve reached behind him, and pulled out something he'd been concealing. "T'Challa took this off Zemo. He thought we'd know best what to do with it."

The world spun. The Soldier woke and snarled. Bucky closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath as, yet again, he was punched in the gut. _No more curve-balls,_ he silently pleaded. _My head can_ _'t handle this. Why can't I just live a simple, quiet life of going from A to Z? Why do I always have to jump back and forth around the alphabet?_

"Buck, you okay?" The concern in Steve's voice pulled him back to himself, helped to settle the Soldier down. He opened his eyes and found Steve hovering close.

"Burn it."

"I… what?"

"The book. Burn it. It needs to be destroyed. Forever."

Bucky could read the hesitation written all over Steve's face. His friend couldn't _seriously_ be thinking of keeping that damn thing around, could he? It was madness. Worse than madness. It was suicidal. Sure, Bucky only had one arm, and he was kinda wobbly on his feet right now, but he was willing to bet the Soldier could compensate for that pretty quickly.

"Are you sure?" Steve asked. "The answer to getting those words out of your head might be hidden away in these pages. Hydra did this to you; maybe they can undo it, too."

Bucky closed his eyes again. Steve was right. Dammit, he was right. The Wakandan noodle-doctors had very cautiously examined him, and their expert opinion was that they'd probably need that damn chair to fix what had been done to Bucky's mind. But even if they _had_ the chair, which they didn't, they'd guessed it might take them years to fully understand it and find a way of reversing its effects, to restore what had been lost and disable the trigger words inside his mind. Perhaps the book, and the details within, could jump-start their research. Knock a year or two off their estimation.

He opened his eyes. "Alright. Keep the book. But pull out the pages that have the words on and give them to me so I can get rid of them. I can remember what the words are." Each one was seared painfully into his mind, fiery cattle-brands of shame. "I don't think I could safely say them, but if necessary, I can probably write them down. The Wakandan doctors can use the book to try and find a way to deprogram me. And if they ever reach the point of needing the words to complete their cure, I can tell them. Until then, I don't want anyone else knowing them."

"That's a fair compromise." Steve opened the book and thumbed through it for a moment. Then he gave Bucky a sheepish grin, and held the book out. "You're going to have to help me out here, pal."

"I should teach you Russian," Bucky snorted. He took the book—the Soldier snarled at the feel of its pages in his hand—and found the page with the words. He ripped the pages out, folded them up, and shoved them into his pocket before handing the book back to Steve. "Thank you. Hopefully it's now safe to use."

Steve stood up and returned to the door. There, he hovered, the very picture of un-Stevely impatience. His expression was of pained discomfort, like that time Mary-Ann had drowned his cuts and bruises in iodine.

"Something else?" Bucky prompted.

"I have to take a short trip."

"I hope you're not going to the Bahamas without me." His joke didn't pull a smile outta Steve this time.

"T'Challa's found where Sam and the others are being kept. I've got a short window of time to get them out."

"Great." Bucky stood up, and managed not to wobble. Slowly, very slowly, he was learning to compensate for his shift in mass. Probably looked like Quasimodo half the damn time, but at least he was makin' progress. "When do we leave?"

"You can't come, Buck."

"Like hell I can't," he scowled.

"Your ribs are still broken, your tibia has only just mended, and…"

He saw it then, in Steve's eyes. His friend didn't see him as a whole person anymore. He was a cripple. A victim. Somebody who had to be protected because he wasn't capable of protecting himself. And sure, his balance was off. His cybernetic arm was gone. He no longer fit the ideal image of a human being. But he wasn't some damn kid who needed to be sheltered. He could still fight with one hand. He could kick and punch and he had a pretty thick skull that was good for head-butting. His senses were as sharp as Steve's, and there were lots of weapons that could be used in a single hand.

"Fine," he snapped petulantly. "Guess I'll just stay here and practice for the next Paralympics. That's all I'm good for now, right?"

"Buck, I didn't say that—"

"You didn't have to," he shot back. "I can see it in your eyes. You don't think I can hack it in a fight anymore."

"That's not true—"

"Then let me prove it!" he said, taking a step forward. God, if his body betrayed him now, he'd never forgive it. "Let me come with you. Gimme a pistol and a knife, and I'll show you that I can still hold my own. Maybe not against you, or T'Challa, but against a bunch of prison guards? No contest." Steve's jaw was set. "C'mon, Steve. Hell, I'll even stay in the car and drive get-away, if you want." He could see Steve teetering. His resolve wavering. _Come on, pal. Don_ _'t make me be the bastard who emotionally blackmails his best friend. Don't make me say what I have to say to make you agree._ But Steve's blue eyes hardened like twin chips of ice, and Bucky had to say it. "Please don't leave me behind. Again."

He hated himself for the soul-crushing guilt that came crashing down onto Steve's face, for the way his blue eyes misted up, for the broken slump of shoulders which had been carrying the weight of the world for so long that they could no longer bear it alone.

"You can come," Steve agreed, his voice cracking before he continued. "But you stay in the quinjet. You don't step foot outside it. And at the first sign of trouble, you get out of there."

 _And leave you behind? Not a chance, pal._ "Done," he lied. He was a much better liar than Steve.

His friend turned for the door, and Bucky called after him.

"I'm sorry, Steve."

When Steve glanced back, all that sadness was still there, clinging to him like a coat he'd draped across his shoulders to be carried with him wherever he went. "So am I."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: This chapter and the next were originally one, but they worked better as two, so I split them. This means the story will be 26 chapters plus the epilogue. Next chapter is on track for my usual Sunday upload. Thanks for reading!_


	25. The Great Escape

Running To You

 _25\. The Great Escape_

"E.T.A. five minutes. Start transmitting the identification code."

Bucky reached out to the console and punched the code into the keypad. Then he hit the _transmit_ button, and sat back in his chair. His valuable contribution to the mission was to be a glorified secretary.

"Code transmitting," he reported back dutifully.

To say the journey so far had been tense would have been a gross underestimation. Steve had barely said two words to him the entire trip, and Bucky knew that this time, he had nobody to blame for his mistake but himself. He'd crossed a line. Hurt his friend because it had been the only way to get his own way. He couldn't take back the lie he had told. He hated that he'd had to cross the line, but he wasn't gonna let Steve wrap him in swaddling and mother him. Just because he was down one arm—and he was already trying to think up 'unarmed' jokes to cover for that—didn't mean he was helpless. It just meant there were certain things he could no longer do. He'd spent most of the journey thinking of those things, and now he picked up where he'd left off.

 _Carry two cups of coffee. Fire a grenade launcher. Archery. Two-handed juggling. Plate-spinning. Left-jab, right-cross. It_ _'s gonna be more right-jab, right-cross now. Air-quotes. They just won't look the same with one hand. More like air-apostrophe. Tribal rhythm drumming. Driving a standard, non-adapted car. Gettin' handcuffed by cops. Heheh. Clapping. Jeez, I should'a thought of that one earlier._

"Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"What sound does a one-handed clap make?"

Steve finally looked up at him. " _Cl_ _—_ "

"That's right," he grinned. Because he'd learnt long ago that the sooner you got a sense of humour, the longer it took for you to be broken. He thought he was kinda broken enough for one lifetime. And maybe if he could find a way to laugh again, he could get Steve to laugh with him. Then everything would be alright between them.

"Maybe we could ask T'Challa if his doctors could whip something up for you."

"Steve. You whip up coffee. Icecream. Chocolate mousse. You don't 'whip up' cybernetic arms. Hydra spent years making that thing. I have no idea whether the schematics even exist anymore. If they do, they're probably in Siberia. Now in the hands of the CIA. Besides, T'Challa's done enough. You know how you feel about the shield you left behind?" Steve nodded. "Well, I feel the same way about my arm. Small price to pay. I'd rather have friends." Now, he gave his friend a grim smile. "Besides, imagine how many medals I'll win in the Paralympics. I figure I can probably beat everyone else at swimming, track and gymnastics. Archery might present a problem."

"You're insufferable," Steve sighed.

"Takes one to know one."

"We're also not twelve years old anymore."

"Speak for yourself. I don't remember what it was like to be twelve years old. Not yet. I suppose the one good thing about my memories being erased—if there even _is_ a good thing about that—is that as they slowly come back, I get to live them again like it's the first time. The earliest one I have so far is, I think, you and I getting detention and scraping gum. Remember that one?"

"Yeah." Steve smiled, and began the descent procedure. "I remember."

The Raft was a floating monstrosity, a dark and foreboding behemoth that rose out of the ocean like some hungry leviathan of legend. Why did men always make their prisons to be hidden away in darkness? How many people locked away inside that floating cell were, like Sam and the others, undeserving of their incarceration?

He didn't get chance to ponder it for long. As the jet approached, the mouth of the prison opened, ready to receive the tiny morsel which flew willingly into its gaping maw. Bucky's stomach churned at his own macabre thoughts. _Get a grip_ , he told himself. _This isn_ _'t the time to let your imagination run away with you. It's not a monster, just a prison. And Steve's friends need you to keep a cool head._

"Once we land," said Steve, lowering the jet towards the waiting platform, "I'll have only thirty minutes to get to Sam and the others. Hopefully that resupply helicopter won't come early, otherwise…"

"Yeah, I know. I get the hell out," Bucky said. Of course, he would do no such thing. He'd find a way to force the helicopter down. Safely, of course, so that nobody was injured. Helicopters were not as resilient as quinjets. "You sure you'll be okay in there? I mean, you don't have your shield anymore."

"I'll adapt," Steve assured him. He pulled his mask over his head and made his way to the ramp. "On the count of five, lower the ramp for me."

"Shouldn't we synchronise our watches?" asked Bucky, looking down at his absent left wrist. "Oh wait. Damn."

Steve merely rolled his eyes, and when the ramp lowered to the floor, jogged down it and began the challenging task of breaking into yet another impenetrable fortress to rescue friends being held captive. It seemed to be one of the themes of Steve's life.

He tapped the 'transmit' button on his ear-piece. "Hey, on the way back, do you think we could stop off at a drive-thru and pick up some dinner?"

A pained grunt came down the line. Either Steve had just been punched in the stomach, or he didn't think much of Bucky's jokes.

 _"_ _Buck, seriously, this isn't the time."_

"Need a hand?" he offered. "I still have one to spare."

 _"_ _Just stay in the—darn it!—stay in the jet, Bucky."_

"Yeah, yeah. I know." He reached out to toy with one of the cockpit's control switches. Flipped it a few times. Watched the amber light blink on and off. "Hey, remember that time Dugan and I arm-wrestled in the _Fiddle_ , and he threw me across the room?"

" _Radio silence,"_ Steve instructed.

Bucky sighed. He knew he should'a brought a book.

Some ten minutes later, whilst Bucky was entertaining himself counting the screws in the jet's floor plating, the receiver in his ear crackled, and Steve's voice came through all full of pent-up frustration.

 _"_ _Buck, I've found Sam, Clint and Scott, but there's a problem."_

He sat up immediately in his chair, his screw-count forgotten. "What problem?"

 _"_ _They're behind bars and electric fields. I thought I'd disabled the cells from the control room, but I must've missed something. We're on the clock, and I don't have time to get back to the control room, figure out what I missed, get these guys out, and find Wanda. The control room's only one deck down from you. I need you to head there and see if you can get these locks open."_

Bucky gasped in faux-shock as he pushed himself to his feet and slowly jogged down the ramp. "You mean… you want me to leave the jet?!" Jogging with only one arm was much more difficult than walking. He lurched from side to side like a New York drunk on a two-day bender.

 _"_ _The path's clear, I've dealt with all the guards, I just need you to go there, do what I said, and please don't gloat."_

"I'm already on my way," he assured his friend. "But I make no promises about the gloating." He would wait until they were back in Wakanda, to do that. Might even get Steve one of those printed t-shirts with _'I told you so'_ written on it.

Steve had done a decent job of clearing the way to the control room, but he'd aimed for speed, rather than finesse. Unconscious men lay sprawled on the floor where they'd fallen, so that Bucky had to run a gauntlet of them as he passed down the corridors. Conscious of the precious minutes ticking away, he hurried as best he could, but his impaired balance made for hard going. At one point, the toe of his boot caught the out-flung hand of a downed man, causing him to trip. A week ago, he could have compensated easily. Now he felt like a cat without its tail; instead of compensating, he went tumbling to the floor, rolling a couple of times before coming to a stop against another still body. His not-yet-mended ribs sent lightning bolts of pain flashing across his chest.

"Goddammit," he swore. The Wakandan doctors would not be please if he broke his ribs before they'd even fully mended.

 _"_ _Everything okay?"_ Steve's voice came through full of worry and with just a hint of 'I told _you_ so' in it.

"Fine," he said, biting back another curse. "Just remembered I left the lamp on beside my bed, back in Wakanda."

He regained his feet and his balance, and tried to ignore the way the corridor seemed to sway beneath him. He had to make it to the control room. Had to get those cell doors open. Had to prove to Steve that he was _wrong_ , that Bucky could handle all of this and more.

When he found the elevator, he stepped inside and punched the button for the level below. It seemed to take forever. Thankfully, there was no music. Elevator music was so boring.

 _"_ _How's it going, Buck?"_ Steve asked.

"Just waiting for the elevator to stop." When it did, there was no cheerful _ding_ to announce the end of the descent; the door slid open silently to reveal a control room full of unconscious men. "Alright, I'm here. To save me time re-covering your tracks, talk me through what you've already done."

 _"_ _See those cameras at the top left?"_

Bucky looked, and found several monitors showing the inside of the cells. On one of them he spotted Steve, along with the three confined men. "Oh, there you are."

 _"_ _I found the corresponding cell switched on the control panel below, and switched them to the 'off' position. There's a button down here to manually release the cells, but it's not working."_

There was a man slumped over the control panel, so Bucky lowered him to the floor with a murmured apology and took the seat for himself. When he examined the control panel, he quickly discovered where Steve had gone wrong.

"There's an access key required to release the locks. Must be a fail-safe, to prevent accidental release. Lemme see if I can find it; one of these guys must have it on them."

Frisking people was much harder with only one hand. Bucky checked the pockets of every man in the room, and it was only as his panic was starting to rise that he thought of checking around their necks. He finally found the key on a chain around the neck of one of the unconscious guards. It slid into the slot on the control panel, and as soon as he turned it, there was a deep, ominous chime, and the words _Emergency Code Transmitted_ appeared on the panel's monitor.

"Oops."

Bucky quickly turned the key the other way. Several lights on the control panel turned green. Green was good. Right?

 _"_ _Oops?!"_

"I think I turned the key the wrong way. It said something about an emergency code being transmitted." Probably some sort of code that translated to, _Some idiots broke into The Raft and turned the key the wrong way. Send backup._ "The doors should open, now."

And sure enough, they did. But Bucky didn't sit idle whilst Steve released his friends and checked they were unharmed. He found Wanda on another monitor, and then located The Raft's locker facilities, where a recent computer entry showed the guys' gear had been stored. Only problem was, the gear and Wanda were at two separate parts of The Raft, and time was running out.

"Steve, I found Wanda on level three, section A. Everyone's gear's on level twelve, section G." Movement on a camera caught his attention, and he saw a squad of armed men pile out of the guard quarters. "And it seems our activities have drawn attention. There's guards headed your way." Movement flashed across another camera. "And my way." This was not good. If the guards made it to the control room, they'd be able to lock everything down, including the hatch that needed to be opened to allow the team to escape.

" _Barton, Lang, find Wanda and get her back to the control room."_ Bucky watched the camera and saw Steve hand another ear-piece over to Barton. _"Bucky, talk them through this place. Sam and I will head down to the equipment lockers, and I'll deal with as many guards as I can."_

"Alright. Barton, head out of that cell and take the corridor on your right. When you reach the elevator, let me know. Steve, go left. There are two flights of stairs you need to go down. Check back when you're there."

He wheeled himself in the chair to another part of the control panel; one which seemed to control the doors between corridors and the various different sections. Made sense. In the unlikely event of a breakout in one section, they'd need to find a way to contain the inmates. Experimentally, he flipped a few of the switches, watching as the doors closed in succession.

It took a few minutes of trial and error—during which time he gave further direction to both pairs of men—and finally managed to seal off a group of guards behind a heavy bulkhead. The doors seemed unnaturally thick… until he remembered that this prison spent most of its time beneath the surface. The doors weren't just to keep inmates in, but to keep water out.

 _Gotta be sturdier than the Monty._

 _"_ _We've found Wanda," Barton said, "but her cell's locked."_

"Working on it," said Bucky, sliding back to the cell controls. A flip of a switch later, and Wanda was free. But now, he had a new problem. One team of guards had made it to the control room, and were banging on one of the closed doors. When they realised the control centre had been compromised, they'd probably try something more drastic than banging. "Get back here ASAP. We don't have much time."

He watched their progress and tried to ignore the banging. Barton, Lang and Wanda weren't too far away now, but Steve and Sam had only just made it to the equipment storage bay. A quick glance at a clock on the wall told him that resupply helicopter would be along any minute now, and sure enough, mere seconds later, a message came into the control room; the single-use ID code, along with a landing request.

 _Shit._

He quickly tapped out a message and hit 'send.' _Technical malfunction with landing platform. Please stand by._ It would buy them a few minutes. Maybe. Or maybe the crew on the copter had already been alerted by the mainland about the security breach.

 _"_ _We're almost at the control room… I think,"_ said Barton. _"But we've just hit a locked door."_

Bucky glanced up at the cameras again, and saw Barton's team just a couple of corridors away, on the opposite side of the control room to the armed guards who were currently trying to cut their way through with a torch. Their progress wasn't swift, but it was definitely progress. Another ten minutes, and they might even make it through.

"Sorry, Barton," said Bucky, as he opened the doors for them. "Just trying to keep out unwanted guests. I've opened the doors for you. Come on in."

Thirty seconds later, three pairs of feet came clattering to a halt in the control room. Barton and Lang's faces were bruised, Wanda looked like she'd been to hell and back, and they all wore an unflattering prison jumpsuit ensemble. All eyes fell wide and on Bucky. For a moment, he wondered why. Then he remembered he didn't look human-being-shaped anymore.

"What happened to your arm?" Barton asked, eyes full of horror and sympathy.

"Tony Stark happened to it."

"Bastard," the man growled.

Bucky merely shrugged. "I deserved it."

"What'd you do, break one of his toys?"

What the hell. They were gonna find out sooner or later. Better they find out now, from him, than from someone else. "Killed his parents."

"There's a lot of that going around," Wanda said. She stopped to lay a hand on his shoulder, looking utterly miserable and exhausted, dark circles painted beneath her eyes. "Weapons can't choose where they're aimed. But the men who _aimed_ them… the men who _made_ them… that's another matter."

"Seen anything that might get this damn collar off Wanda?" Barton asked, gesturing to a metal circlet around the young woman's neck.

"No, but check the guards. They're full of useful things."

They checked, but couldn't find anything. Wanda sank down into a chair and looked like she might be sick. Bucky's heart went out to her; he knew just what it was like to be made helpless. To feel weak. To have what power you possessed taken away.

"Why don't you all get back to the jet?" he suggested, as the guards gained another few inches with their torch. "There's a helicopter waiting to land outside, those guards will get through in a few minutes, and Steve and Sam still have to get back here. It's gonna be a close call."

"I'll get the jet prepped for takeoff," Barton nodded. "Come on, Wanda, let's get you back there. There's nothing you can do with that collar on; we'll have to find a way to take it off later." He helped the young woman to her feet, and turned back to offer Bucky a grim smile. "I hope the story of how you managed to find us makes for an entertaining tale."

"It will. You should go, too," he told Lang, after the other two had left.

"I'll stick around for now. Three hands are better than one," Lang said.

"Heh. Alright."

"Hmm." The amazing shrinking growing man cast his blue eyes over the various monitors and screens set into the control panel. Bucky thought he could see the cogs turning inside his mind. "On a scale of one to ten, how waterproof would you say that jet is?"

"Uh… I dunno. Why?"

"Because I just had a crazy idea."

Bucky watched as Lang began flipping switches and pushing buttons. Without warning, a flashing red light came on in the control room, and some sort of general alarm sounded loud enough to make him jump. This could not be good. Green was good. Green. Red was bad. Everybody knew it.

 _"_ _Buck, what's going on?"_ Steve asked. No doubt he'd experienced some red lights of his own.

Looking at the camera monitors, Bucky saw his friend and Sam making their way back, their arms full of gear. "Uh, I dunno. Lang, what's going on?"

"I'm submerging The Raft."

"Oh. Uh… Steve? You're probably not going to like the answer. Let's just say you should get back here, and fast." He stopped transmitting. "Lang, are you nuts? How are we gonna take off if we're underwater?"

"For the past four days, Barton's done nothing but tell me he's the best pilot S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ever had, and I got a look at that hatch on the way in. I think a jet could squeeze through the gap before the landing chamber's flooded."

"But the chamber's full of unconscious prison guards!"

"Oh. Umm… better ask Barton and Wanda to put them in one of the corridors."

Bucky relayed Lang's instructions, then watched as the guy started flipping different switches. "What are you doing now?"

"I'm flooding that corridor," said Lang, nodding to where the security guards had almost made a door with their torch. "Don't worry, I'm flooding it slowly. They'll have time to retreat to a different section."

"That door has been compromised. If you flood the corridor, the water will come busting in here pretty quick."

"I'll stop flooding it when they leave."

Lang slid over to a keyboard, and started typing out lines of unintelligible code.

" _Now_ what are you doing?" Bucky demanded. Lang reminded him very much of Charlie; always running around, getting into all sorts of mischief. Was this how Steve _always_ felt, around his Avenger friends?

"Writing a program to allow us to remotely access the hatch release from the jet." Lang looked up and grinned at him. "Otherwise, someone's gonna have to stay here to do it. I'm also configuring the bulkheads around the hatch corridors to lock into place as soon as the command's given. No point flooding the whole thing… though I don't mind telling you how much I'd like to see this place sink."

Scott Lang, Bucky realised, was a madman. An insane diabolical genius in the body of an unassuming computer geek. But despite his plan being completely crazy, it seemed to be working. When they realised the corridor was being flooded, the guards abandoned their attempt at getting into the control centre and fled to a drier area. A check on the cameras showed Steve and Sam on their way back to the jet, bypassing the control room completely.

"We should go," Bucky said. "Unless you have more computer geek things to do."

"My geeking is finished, for now. Let's go see how good a pilot Barton _really_ is."

They got back to the jet just after Steve and Sam, and Bucky decided it was wiser to let Lang explain the plan and bear the brunt of Steve being pissed off. As predicted, Steve was not thrilled about the prospect of an under-water takeoff. Bucky hadn't seen him this displeased since… since… well, he couldn't remember. But one day, he would.

"And you're _sure_ there's no chance of this going wrong, flooding The Raft, and killing everyone on it?"

"Absolutely sure," said Lang. "The Raft has safety protocols in place, to automatically rise if it detects a volume of water in the landing chamber. We'll be ascending while we take off, and hopefully the sight of this place taking on water will be enough to keep that helicopter busy."

"Barton?" Steve sighed. "Can you do it?"

"Dunno. Guess 'can' is sorta irrelevant, now. I _have_ to. But it would help to have a flight-plan laid in, so I can enter stealth mode as soon as we're clear of the area. Where are we heading?"

"Wakanda," said Steve.

"Hah. Good one. No, seriously, where are we heading?"

It took three tries, and a lot of story-telling, before Barton finally believed them.


	26. The Ones We Leave Behind

Running To You

 _26\. The Ones We Leave Behind_

For the first time in two years, Bucky wanted for nothing. He was free from Hydra, and safe from anybody who might be pursuing him for their own purposes. He had his friend back, and he had books full of memories to which he added more every day. He'd been given clothes, a luxurious room and freedom to explore the Wakandan palace and its gardens. He had peace, quiet, and as much or as little solitude as he desired.

And yet, as he stirred the fruity loops of cereal around in the milk in his cereal bowl, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that this peace was a mere reprieve. A lungful of air taken before the next dive. A moment in time that would last only until it took the next crazy thing to happen. And crazy things _would_ happen. Everything was faster now. In 1945, crazy things had happened a sedate and manageable pace. Now, the world was out of control, like a horse with no reins. What would come next? More Hydra? Stark again? A half-dozen world governments looking to slip a control collar around his neck, like the one they'd put on Wanda? Aliens laying waste to Wakanda?

"Y'know, I've seen guys look for answers in the bottom of a vodka bottle before, but never in a bowl of cereal."

Bucky looked up as Sam Wilson strolled into the private dining room T'Challa had granted the exiled Avengers sole use of. Sam took the seat next to him, and he returned his gaze to the bowl. He wasn't particularly in the mood for company, but he couldn't tell Wilson to go away. Not after everything the guy had gone through to get him back. Besides, there was still that small helicarrier matter to work past.

"I'm looking for messages," he said. "The loops spell out words if I stare at them long enough."

"For real?"

An amused snort escaped him, and he glanced to Sam's incredulous face. "Of course not for real. I'm a brainwashed amnesiac, Wilson, I'm not a complete nutjob."

"Oh, good. I was about to offer to make you a tinfoil hat."

Bucky shook his head and pushed his dish aside. Tinfoil hat? He was pretty up to speed on modern times, but there were some references he just didn't understand. Hydra had never burdened their Soldier with anything as mundane as popular culture, and most of his own internet surfing had been work-related.

"So, what does it feel like to be a free man?" asked Wilson.

 _A free man._ The thought pulled a laconic smile across his lips. He couldn't remember the last time he'd truly been free, but he knew one thing for sure; freedom, this wasn't. Sure, he wasn't in an icebox, or a cell, or a silo, but that didn't mean he was free. T'Challa had welcomed him to the palace, then asked him to stay within its grounds while his scientists figured out how to get an organic subliminal program out of his head. He was free from Hydra, but their trigger words were still dangling over him like the Sword of Damocles. The Soldier still slumbered within him, ready to react to provocation. The world was still looking for him. And his memories, the Soldier's memories, of everything he had done, would be with him forever. Every face. All of them. With him, for all of eternity.

"It feels great," he offered.

"Uh-huh." Wilson leaned back in his chair, studying Bucky with his calm brown eyes. "You know what my job was, before I became a bad-ass crime-fighting superhero?"

"Florist?"

"Close. I ran counselling sessions for vets."

"I met a vet once," Bucky said. "He fixed my broken arm because I couldn't risk going to a doctor."

" _Veterans,_ " Sam sighed. Then he grumbled something that sounded like it might have been, _'dumb-ass._ ' "Not veterinarians. Open group sessions, mostly, but some one to one stuff, when the need arose. Point is, I've been around enough to spot when I'm thrown a lie. Especially when it's thrown unconvincingly."

"So… what, you wanna counsel me? Because I gotta tell you, I'm not really into that whole 'talking about my feelings' stuff." Besides, he had Steve for that, and he barely even knew Wilson. Sure, they had a little camaraderie because they both talked to inanimate objects, but that wasn't enough to build a proper rapport on. "Now, if you could feng-fui my bedroom so that it channels positive energy to help me sleep a little better, that would be great."

"You're have trouble sleeping?"

"Dammit, Wilson, please don't try to read between my lines," he growled. Why did Steve's friends have to be so annoying? "I sleep just fine, and if I struggle at all, it's because after seventy years in and out of a Siberian freezer box, I don't do humid jungles very well."

"Alright. I'm just sayin', if you need an impartial ear, I got two of 'em. I know you and Steve have a special bond, but sometimes it can be easier to talk to someone who's not as close to whatever mess you're trying to get through."

Great. Just what he needed. Counsellor Sam to the rescue. There wasn't a chance in hell Bucky was sitting in on Avengers group therapy sessions. Things weren't _that_ dire. But how to get Sam to give up the idea? Finally, inspiration struck from 1943.

"Are you hittin' on me?" he asked, employing his most serious of Winter Soldier faces.

"I—what? Of course not!" Sam spluttered.

"It's okay if you are."

"I'm not hitting on you."

"I mean, Steve's got Sharon to talk to, so it's only natural that you feel a little left out. Maybe I can bend your impartial ear, and then you can bend mine, and later this evening we can go for a walk in the gardens and watch the sunset…"

"You know what? Screw you, Barnes. I'm gonna go get myself a bacon roll, and you can sit here and look for messages in your cereal."

A smug grin settled itself on Bucky's face as Wilson left. He picked up his mug of coffee and drank half of it in two long gulps. It seemed making other people feel uncomfortable really _was_ a good defensive mechanism, after all.

o - o - o - o - o

He sat staring into the fire as the flames licked at his offering of wood. It was a warm night, and there was technically no need for a fire… but he hadn't lit this one for warmth. He'd purposely kept it small… small enough for his own needs.

When the flames were established, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and looked for a long moment at what was written there. Just words. But words had power. And the wrong words could cause untold suffering. Over the past seventy years, they already _had._

He leant forward and offered the paper out to the flames, watching it curl and char before catching alight. He held the paper until it was burnt down to its very last corner, then sat back and watched the fire go about its business, completely oblivious to what it had just destroyed. Tomorrow, when the ashes had cooled, he would scoop them up and scatter them into the breeze. Nothing would remain of those words.

It wouldn't end here, of course. Too many people knew about him. Wanted to use him. Hurt him. Kill him. Exploit what Hydra had made him. He'd destroyed the words, but Zemo knew them. How long until the CIA pried them out of him? How long until some other minion of Hydra appeared with those words, remembered from before the organisation's fall? What if the next time he was triggered, it wasn't government personnel he hurt, but innocents? Children?

No. This was not over. Until those words were out of his head, it would never be over.

Somebody knocked on his door, and he called out, "Come in."

Steve again. He'd been busy, these past couple of days, seeing his friends settled in, making sure they got medical treatment, reassuring them that their loved ones—the ones they'd left back in the 'real' world—were safe. Barton and Lang had sent encoded, carefully masked messages to their families, telling them not to worry. T'Challa's scientists had swiftly released Wanda from her collar, which raised some very interesting questions about how the CIA had managed to get their hands on a device which could so swiftly and thoroughly neutralise the young woman's powers.

"Not interrupting, am I?" Steve asked.

Bucky felt a small smile tug at his lips. "No. Just taking care of some unfinished business."

How was he going to break the news to Steve? He'd thought long and hard, these past two days, about the best way to proceed with getting deprogrammed. Ultimately, however, it was out of his hands. T'Challa's people were working on it, but there was nothing Bucky could do to help them. They were a long time away from a solution, and he couldn't even leave to go track down that chair, because the moment he left the safety of Wakanda, he made himself a target. His prison might be larger than The Raft, and it might not have walls to confine him, but it was no less a prison because of it. Finally, this morning, he'd reached a decision he knew Steve wouldn't like. He couldn't let his legacy be one of nothing but bloodshed. Until somebody found a way to get these damned words out of his head, the threat that was the Winter Soldier had to be minimised.

"Well, if you've finished doing that, I've got something for you. Two somethings, actually."

"Then by all means, come on in."

The rest of Steve appeared, and in his hands was a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. "Long overdue," Steve smiled, reminding Bucky very much of the guy he'd gone drinking in London with, whenever the Commandos weren't on covert missions behind enemy lines. "We might not be able to get drunk, but we can give it our best shot."

"I like the way you think," Bucky grinned. Back in London, Scotch had been an old friend. Helped to, if not erase the pain of what Zola had put him through in that Austrian workhouse, at least dull it, for a while.

Steve took a seat on the sofa beside Bucky and poured out two large measures. "To the future," he toasted, and Bucky clinked his glass before taking a sip of the whisky. It burnt all the way down, just like good Scotch should.

"And to friendship," Bucky offered, before the second sip. "The only ship that can't be torpedoed by U-boats."

Steve gave him a rather amused, quizzical glance before joining his toast, then he set his glass aside and pulled something from his pocket for Bucky to see.

"A USB stick," Bucky grinned. "Thanks, pal, I've always wanted one of those."

"It's not just any _ordinary_ USB stick," Steve said. There was a small, conspiratorial smile on his face that piqued Bucky's curiosity.

"Lemme guess; it doubles as a Swiss Army knife? No wait, it shoots deadly lasers from the end? And it's got a tracking device in it, so I can't get lost again?"

"Not even close." His friend took a deep breath before continuing, and Bucky's interest was piqued even further. Steve hadn't even looked this hesitant before the assault on The Raft. Breaking into a maximum security facility was a walk in the park, but a USB stick made him look all clenchy again? "Y'see, after Washington… after I learnt what Hydra had done to you… I figured there might be more to getting you back than… well, getting you back. Figured with your memories erased, you might need a bit of help remembering things. So, I started compiling this… well, I guess you could call it an album. Everything I could find about you from the history books, the internet, and my own memory. I wanted to be able to give you a full tour of your life. I've kept this with me for the past two years, hoping I'd get the chance to re-introduce you to yourself. So, if you're game, I'd like to show you what I've managed to put together. Maybe it will help fill out those books of yours a little more."

Bucky blinked rapidly, trying to clear his eyes of the tears which were welling. Never in a thousand years would he have thought anyone would do something like that for him. Steve had gone to more trouble than Bucky could ever imagine, to try and get him back. How could he ever repay a friendship like that?

"Sure, pal. There's nothing I'd like more."

He poured himself another helping of Scotch as Steve plugged the stick into the very large television. Bucky didn't know why T'Challa felt the need to put a damn cinema in every bedroom, but he suddenly found himself glad for the large screen. If he was gonna see his life, he wanted to see it as big as possible.

Steve sat back down and handed him the remote. With a shaking hand— _stupid traitor hand_ —he pressed the _play_ button, and found himself looking at his family. It was a monochrome picture, black and white and grey that had faded to yellow and brown in some parts, but there was no mistaking them for anyone else. In the foreground, Bucky, Mary-Ann and Steve were holding popsicles, Bingo's leash firmly wrapped around Bucky's left hand, whilst Dad was holding a young Charlie in his arms, and Mom carrying a baby Janet. They were all wearing floppy straw hats, and Mom and Dad were wearing tacky novelty sunglasses.

"Remember that day?" Steve asked. Bucky shook his head. He didn't trust himself to speak. "We were about eleven… it was the year after Janet was born, and your parents drove us down to the beach. We had a picnic and spent the whole day running into and out of the waves. Later that afternoon, Mary-Ann stepped on a jellyfish—not a dangerous one—and your dad bribed her with chocolate to get her to stop crying. It had been months since I'd had chocolate. Great Depression, and all. I remember thinking it was the best thing I'd ever tasted."

Bucky let his eyes linger, drinking in the sight of the family he'd lost long ago, letting the images of them sear themselves into his mind. He could write about this, put words in his book, but he couldn't write images. This was different. Special. Maybe he could get the pictures printed.

He pressed the _forward_ button, and found another picture, this one of his family at Christmas. Steve was absent, and so was Janet; must've been from before his youngest sister was born. Charlie was still a baby, only a few months old, and Mary-Ann smiled so sweetly at the camera that she looked like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Bucky was grinning, a gap-toothed smile, as he held up a wooden train he'd just unwrapped.

 _Forward_. A different sort of family picture, one which tore an aching pang from his chest. In the middle was Charlie, dressed in graduation robes and cap. Mom and Dad were smiling proudly on either side of him, and Mary-Ann and Janet on either side of them. Charlie had graduated from high-school just a few weeks after Bucky had shipped out for England. He'd never got the chance to see his brother's graduation picture.

 _Forward._ Another heart-wrenching image. Mary-Ann in the hospital, with two small babies nestled in her arms. He'd always known his siblings had grown up and had families of their own, but he'd never thought to look for pictures of them.

"She met a guy in Baltimore," Steve said, his voice a soft, unobtrusive narration to the story of Bucky's life. Bucky felt something warm and wet trickle down his cheek, and quickly wiped the tear away. "A teacher named Grant, who worked at the same school as her. They were married in '47, at a little church in Brooklyn, and they moved to Baltimore permanently after the honeymoon. Her first sons were twins; she named them James and Steven, after us. Her third son came along four years later; Calvin, named after your dad."

 _Forward._ The twins' first birthday party. _Forward_. The twins welcoming their new brother. _Forward_. The whole family on holiday by the sea. Each new image brought with it new aches of longing and regret, until the pictures skipped further and ceased being monochrome. By the time the seventies came around, the twins were adults with families of their own; technicolour families full of life and smiles. Never had he imagined that looking at pictures of his family would be so difficult.

"James had two girls," Steve explained, and Bucky realised his friend had gone to the trouble of memorising all these facts. "Steven had a boy, and then two girls. Twins. Apparently it runs in the family."

 _Forward_. Pictures of Charlie playing baseball flickered by. Posing for photos with his team, holding a cup triumphantly over his head.

"He played with the Dodgers, and then with the Mets," said Steve. "Married a nurse called Jenny; she got him back on his feet after a hamstring injury. They went on to have three kids, and after Charlie retired from MLB, he went on to coach Little League. Both his sons went on to be Major League players, and his daughter was one of the first female sports writers employed in the U.S."

 _Forward._ His youngest sister was immortalised through the years. At political marches, at speeches and conferences… and then in the countryside, on a picnic blanket, with a man's arms wrapped around her and four kids clustered nearby.

"Janet always liked to be different," Steve smiled. "After college, she took up with suffragettes and campaigned for womens' rights. When she was thirty, she got married to a Frenchman and they had four kids. They moved to France when the kids were young, and as far as I've been able to tell, they're still there. After her husband died, Janet moved back to New York, to be with your brother and sister." Steve stopped speaking for a moment, and when he continued, his voice sounded heavy as lead. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but she died a few months ago."

Bucky nodded. "I knew she wasn't well. Read that she was in a dementia hospital. I would've gone to see her, but… well…"

Steve gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I know. You don't have to say any more. But I wanted you to know that even though you might think you're alone, that you've lost all your family… you really haven't. You've got family out there. Most of them wouldn't recognise you if they saw you, but they're all part of one really big, really scattered, Barnes clan. One day, when things are different, maybe you'd like to meet some of them. Get to know your family again. Let them get to know you."

"Thank you, Steve. For all of this." The tears were still there, waiting to come through, held back behind poor, intangible floodgates. At any moment, those gates might buckle. "I can't even begin to tell you how much I appreciate you putting this together for me."

"Oh, we're not done yet," Steve smiled. "You didn't think I was gonna stop at your family, did you? Keep going forward."

So he did. He scrolled through countless pictures of himself and the Commandos, some of which he'd already seen in the Smithsonian, some of which were completely new to his eyes.

"Y'know," he said, a smile pulling his lips up, "you were the only soldier in the whole army who had his very own war correspondent and photographer. What was that guy's name again?"

"Freddie. He was an excitable kid, wasn't he?"

"I don't know," Bucky admitted. "I barely even remember him. You got any pictures of him in here?"

"No. We tried to get Freddie in a picture, once, but he refused to be on the 'business end' of the camera, as he put it. A real pity."

"What happened to the rest of the Commandos?"

"Well, Dernier became a politician—"

"Really? The guy who spent all his time blowing things up and trying to poison us with _haute cuisine_ ended up in politics?"

"Yeah. A pretty good one too, if the history books are true. He helped shape France's future."

"What about Falsworth? You're gonna tell me he opened up his own tea company or something?"

Steve smiled. He knew how much Bucky had hated English tea. "No. He stayed with the British Army after the war. Won just about every medal they could pin on his chest over the next thirty years, and retired with full honours. He died peacefully at the age of seventy one, a lifelong bachelor."

"Dugan?"

"You remember Lizzie?"

"No way!" he grinned. God, those two had flirted relentlessly for months. How had they ever gotten it together?

"It took them a while," Steve confirmed. "On again, off again, over the next four years. Eventually they decided to stick with 'on again.' Moved to Manhattan. I couldn't find much on Dugan's official activities in the following years—much of his record's so sealed that not even I can get into it—but by all accounts, he led a happy life, and had six kids to continue his legacy."

"Six?" Bucky let out a whistle. "Impressive, Dugan. Even more impressive for Lizzie. I can only imagine how much of a handful those kids were. What about Gabe, and Morita?"

"Gabe became an entrepreneur, one of America's richest, most successful black businessmen. Had a wife and two kids. He was killed in a bar brawl, of all things, in the late sixties. It wasn't well investigated. Racially motivated crimes rarely were. I couldn't find anything else about him, other than boring business news. But he was loved by his family and respected by his friends. As for Morita… you'll never believe it."

"Go on, hit me. No wait, let me guess. Broadway actor?"

Steve shook his head. "Close. Movie producer. He started quite late in life, and never made anything that was critically successful, but he did alright for himself. Made a few small budget movies about the war, but by then America had moved on to a new war, so they never became all that popular outside of their own cult following."

"Crazy."

"Yeah. Flick through the next images, and you'll see the few pictures I managed to find of them after the war. Most of it's Dernier and Morita, but there are a few of the others, too."

So he flicked, alternating between looking at images and sipping his whisky, because he could no longer do both at the same time. He watched the sometimes smiling, sometimes tired faces of the men he'd known and fought with. The men who'd helped him get through the hell of Austria.

Then he reached a new image, and felt his breath catch in his throat as nine familiar figures leapt onto the screen, posing in a group photo in front of a low building that had a large, white number 6 painted on it.

"Oh, this one," said Steve. "You'll have to fill in that particular blank for me, if you can. I looked for pictures of you with the 107th, and this was the only one I could find."

Bucky nodded and sat forward a little, his eyes scanning the faces of long-dead men; men who'd been a second family to him, and had walked with him through hell before he'd even heard of Azzano. At the bottom of the picture of the nine soldiers was a hand-written description which simply read, _107th Infantry, NY._

"That picture was taken at Last Stop," he explained. "Outside our barracks. That was our last day at Camp Shanks, before we got on the transport that took us to England."

He paused and looked at the picture more closely. In his memories, most of those men had been tired and beleaguered. In this picture they were all smiling, innocently unaware of the horrors that awaited them in Europe.

Lifting his hand, he pointed to the youngest member of the group, a gangly youth with his arms hooked around the shoulders of the two men next to him. "That was Private Michael Tipper. We think the kid lied about his age on his enlistment form. No way he was eighteen. He was the first to die. Went out… I sent him out… on a standard recon mission. Should've been easy. But he stepped on a mine. The others brought his tag back, but there wasn't enough of him left to bury."

Next he pointed to one of the men beside Tipper. The tall young corporal Bucky had stayed with until the end. "Corporal Kenny Robbins. You can't tell from that picture, but his hair was bright ginger. We called him Carrot. He had a real beautiful girl waiting for him back home; Samantha. She was blonde, and she loved roses. Carrot was shot on another mission. I was with him until the moment his eyes stopped seeing. Promised him I'd send his final letter home to Samantha. Don't know if I ever saw it through."

Perhaps Steve hadn't expected there to be so much death in this picture. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with sympathy. "Buck, we don't have to look at this one, if you don't want."

"I can't change what happened to them, Steve. But I can remember them. And I can tell others about them. For most of them, that's all they have left."

Steve nodded, his blue eyes troubled.

"The two on the end over there," Bucky continued, "were Private First Class Davies, and Private First Class Franklin. I don't remember much about those two. I know they died, but I don't know how. That big guy next to them is Private Biggs, and the guy next to him is Corporal Ferguson. Gusty. Don't ask about the name. They were with me, at Azzano." He closed his eyes. Tried to remember whether he'd seen them in Austria, or when he got back to camp with Steve. But his mind hit a mental blank. Their fates were a mystery to him. Perhaps that was for the best.

"On the far right, that's Private Hawkins. He was a good kid. Only a little bit older than Charlie. I don't remember much about him, but I think I saw Charlie every time I looked at him. I wasn't with him, when he died. It was a mission to collect some supplies… only days before Azzano, I think. We'd lost a lot of good men, by then." Too many, and most of them little more than boys, really. None of them had been prepared for war. They'd imagined adventure; had never dreamed of death. _War_. He hated it with a passion.

"What about that guy?" Steve prompted, when Bucky's silent introspection stretched out. "The one standing in the middle, next to you."

"Sergeant Danny Wells." He smiled and shook his head. "Nobody could spin a line of bullshit like Wells. He had this crazy idea he was gonna marry Rita Hayworth. Of course, I told him that was stupid, that I was gonna marry her, but he wouldn't listen. He had this way of trying to deal with being worried or uncomfortable by making everyone else around him even more uncomfortable. Even after he died, the guy was full of surprises. He had joint command of the mission Hawkins died on," he said, when Steve hit him with a questioning glance. "Didn't make it back."

"I'm sorry, Buck. If I'd known how difficult these memories would be, I wouldn't have put the picture in here."

"I'm glad you did." He took a deep, shaky breath. "Ever since my memories started coming back, the two things to sit heaviest on me have been what happened during the war, and what Hydra did to me. This picture is a reminder that there were some bright moments, even in the darkness. I guess… as long as we remember people the people we lost, they aren't truly gone. Right?"

Steve gave him the saddest smile he'd ever seen, and Bucky didn't have to ask who he was thinking of at that moment. "Right." He cleared his throat. "There's one more picture. The last one."

"Better pour me the last of that whisky, then," he sighed, holding out his empty class. "And make it a double, barmaid."

One of Steve's eyebrows crept up as he picked up the Scotch and held it up to examine its contents. "You drank the whole bottle?"

" _We_ drank the whole bottle," he corrected.

"Bucky, I only had one glass."

"Let's not play the blame game, Steve. Besides, you don't even like Scotch. I knew you were only drinking it with me to be sociable. Now, pour."

Steve obeyed, and Bucky took a sip before exchanging his glass for the remote control. When he flicked to the last picture, he found it wasn't a horrible, heart-wrenching image he'd been expecting; the proverbial cherry on the cake of tragedy. It was a photo of eighteen-year-old Steve and Bucky, both wearing smart tuxedos, a finely-dressed Mary-Ann on Steve's arm, and Bucky's date on his. He couldn't even remember her name.

"Senior Prom," Steve said. "I told you bow-ties made my head look small." He'd been right. Steve's head looked comically tiny, on that picture.

"And I told you we'd have a good time. We _did_ have a good time… didn't we?"

"We had a good time," agreed Steve. Probably killed him to admit that. "Mary-Ann didn't try to make me dance, and Marjorie wouldn't let you leave without a goodnight kiss."

Ahh, Marjorie. _That_ had been her name. Shame he didn't remember the kiss.

"To Marjorie," he said, holding out his glass towards the TV screen. "I'm sure she was a fine dame."

"So, James Buchanan Barnes, this has been your life," said Steve. "Or at least, snapshots of it. What do you think?"

The whisky fumes got in his eyes a little, made them tear up so he had to blink fast to clear his vision. "I think it's been a fine life, and I'm glad you were there, here and now, to share it with me. I can't wait to see what's in store for the rest of it." Eventually. When the Wakandan doctors finally managed to get the Winter Soldier out of his head.

He turned to Steve and opened his mouth to tell him of his plan, but stopped before the first word could come out. Tonight had been a good night, full of laughter and sadness and memory. For tonight, for his friend, he could pretend that the world was sunshine and daffodils. Tomorrow would be soon enough to burst that bubble. Besides, even though T'Challa's people had pulled the cryostasis schematics out of Hydra's leaked files, they wouldn't be able to construct it overnight. There was time, still, to enjoy being back with his best friend.

"Steve? Can I ask you something?" Time to put one final burning question to rest.

"Of course."

"I'm asking you this because you know me better than anyone, and I know you'll give me a straight answer. I want you to be honest with me."

"I'm always honest," his friend assured him. And he _had_ to be honest, because he was a terrible liar.

"When we were fighting, back in Washington, in the bowels of that helicarrier… I wasn't dropping my right elbow, was I?"

o - o - o - o - o

Steve stood looking out over the emerald green canopy, lost in his own thoughts. For the first time since Leipzig, his team was safe. The guys were recovering from their bruises, Wanda was slowly overcoming the nightmares she suffered after being locked inside a small cell and cut off from her powers, Sharon and Nat were probably enjoying the lazy country life, and Bucky was almost as recovered from his injuries as Steve.

And yet… he felt strangely dissatisfied. As if he'd only managed to delay the inevitable. The world was still looking for Bucky, and just because they were doing it a little more quietly, didn't mean the risk was any less. Tony was out there—by all accounts, back at the Avengers compound—and try as he might, Steve just couldn't bring himself to blame the guy. Couldn't even bring himself to blame Zemo, for causing most of this mess. Zemo and Stark; they were two men, each driven by grief, each consumed by vengeance, both now living with the consequences of their actions. And both would likely carry on seeking that vengeance, if they ever got the chance.

"It is a beautiful view, is it not?" a quiet voice asked. T'Challa stepped up to stand beside Steve, looking out of the window over the expanse of forest below. The King was resplendent as usual in his finery, yet he never looked overdressed. Steve doubted he could have pulled off one of those deceptively elaborate outfits. "I never tire of seeing it."

"You are fortunate to have such a beautiful country, your Highness," he agreed. "I can understand why Wakandans feel no need to look outside their borders."

"And yet, we must. Even a king cannot hope to hold back the world forever."

"I hope I'm not intruding on your private window space."

"Not at all, Captain," T'Challa assured him. "In fact, I was on my way to a meeting when I noticed you standing here, and thought that you might convey a message to Mr Barnes for me."

"Of course."

"Please tell him my lead scientist informs me that work on the unit is proceeding faster than planned, and it should be ready by tomorrow evening."

Steve felt his brows knit themselves into a frown. "Unit?"

"The cryostasis unit that… Ah." Though T'Challa's face was carefully blank, his dark eyes were full of regret. An expression Steve knew all too well. "Please forgive me. I assumed Mr Barnes had already discussed this with you. I can see by your face that he has not."

After a minute had passed, Steve remembered to breathe. Felt fresh, air-conditioned air fill his lungs and clear his head. Bucky had asked T'Challa to build him a _cryostasis_ unit? Why? And more importantly, why hadn't Bucky mentioned anything about this to his best friend?

"I think I need to go talk to Bucky. Will you excuse me, your Highness?"

"By all means. I'm… sorry you had to find out like this."

Steve didn't see the guilt and sympathy on T'Challa's face, because he was too busy trying to keep his feet moving in a straight line whilst be battled his own rising anger. Bucky in cryo was almost as bad as Bucky in a cage. Steve hadn't spent so long looking for his friend, just to see him go back into one of those darned freezer boxes. What could Bucky be _thinking_?!

Outside Bucky's room, he stopped and composed himself. Tried to break the self-perpetuating loop of angry thoughts. After three or four minutes, he thought he was suitably composed, his anger firmly leashed. He knocked on the door, and waited for his friend to call out for him to enter. When he did, and Steve stepped into the room, he found Bucky sitting on his bed, photographs around him, which he seemed to be inserting into various pages of his memory books.

Bucky looked up at him, and smiled. "Hey pal."

" _Cryostasis?!_ _"_ Steve blurted out, because it felt like he was losing a Bucky-shaped piece of himself all over again, and it was all he could do to keep holding everything inside.

The smile slipped from Bucky's face. "Oh. How'd you find out? Wait, it doesn't matter."

"So it's true?"

Bucky sighed quietly, his blue-grey eyes deep pools of indescribable emotion. "Yeah. I was gonna tell you the other night… but then we had Scotch, and you showed me my life, and the timing didn't seem right."

"What about the four days between that night and now?!"

His friend lowered his gaze. "Alright. I didn't tell you because I'm a coward and I didn't wanna see you sad. I'm sorry."

"Dammit, Buck." He dropped onto the bed to sit beside his friend, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "You were right. That serum didn't make me perfect, it just made some improvements. I make mistakes all the time; I shouldn't expect you to be above doing the same. I just wish you'd told me. That I had more time to prepare. That we had more time to spend together, after so many years apart."

"There's time yet, Steve. It might be days before—"

"I saw T'Challa on my way here. He said to tell you that the cryo unit will be ready by tomorrow night."

"Oh." Bucky took a deep breath. Sat up a little straighter. Couldn't quite hide the surprise… or the sadness. "Oh. Well. I'm afraid we'll have to go dancing some other time, pal."

"Why do you even want to do this? I thought you'd hate being in cryo, after all the times Hydra made you do it." It sounded like a nightmare. From what he knew of cryo, it wasn't true sleep. A mind didn't dream, whilst in stasis. It just fell into blank _nothingness_.

"Because until these words are out of my head, the world's a more dangerous place with me in it," Bucky said coldly, factually. "T'Challa's best noodle-doctors think it's gonna be a few years before they make real progress, and until then, I can't trust myself to be out in the world. The alternative is to stay here until I'm fixed… but a prison of my own making is no less a prison. Cryo isn't so bad. It's over in the blink of an eye. Besides…" Bucky reached out to place his right hand on Steve's shoulder, "…it means I'll get to stay biologically younger than you, forever."

"You're insufferable," Steve sighed. He couldn't let Bucky distract him with a laugh and a joke. Not this time. This was too important. "Please don't do this, Buck. I only just got you back. I don't wanna lose you again."

"You won't. This time, you'll know exactly where I am. And I promise, when all of this is over, when I've finally got this damned Hydra programming out of my head, you'll have me back for good. I can't promise it'll be like old times, but maybe that's a good thing. We're both different people now. We can make some new times. And… I'd like to find a way to clear my name, and maybe make amends for what Hydra had me do." Bucky offered him a smile that was so reminiscent of the old, young, pre-war Bucky, that it made something feel like it had _popped_ inside Steve's chest. "I'm not saying I want to sign on the dotted Avengers line and start wearing a spandex costume or anything, but I'd like to do something, to make a difference in the world. And I'd kinda like my best friend to help me with that. Just, y'know, until I'm ready to do it by myself."

"I'll be here," he promised. "When they're ready to deprogram you, I'll be with you every step of the way. And when it's done, and you're ready to let the world see the real you, I'll be there for that, too. And," he said, returning as much of his friend's smile as he could muster, "I won't even make you wear a costume."

Bucky gave a quiet chuckle. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. Just… do me a favour?"

"Anything."

"Even if they haven't found a cure… pull me out for your wedding." A nefarious grin tugged at Bucky's lips. "Can't get married without your best man, and if I find out you gave that spot to Wilson, I'm going to come out of cryo extremely pissed."

Steve shook his head. A laugh and a joke to try and cheer his best friend up. That was Bucky all over. Even now, facing potentially years in cryostasis, his main concern was still Steve. _Life_ , he decided, _is decidedly unfair._

"Don't worry, I'll save you the best spot in the church, as long as you agree to go easy on the best man's speech. No embarrassing stories about when we were kids." He bit his lower lip, trusting in the pain to keep everything else at bay. "So… I guess we've got one day. What do you want to fill your last day with?"

Bucky looked down at his scattered memory books. "Tell you what, give me an hour to finish putting these away, then until tomorrow, I'm yours. I'm sure there's plenty of trouble we can get ourselves into around here."

"Okay, Buck," he agreed.

"Would you…" His friend looked down again at the books around him. "Would you keep these somewhere safe for me? After I'm gone? Make sure nobody can get them?"

Steve nodded. For the first time, he truly realised what the notebooks meant to his friend. They weren't just a chronological record of his past experiences; they were everything he had been and done. They were his friends, his family, the childhood he barely remembered, a lifetime of hopes and dreams, and the nightmares Hydra had put him through. They were his security blanket. A way of keeping some small part of himself safe, protecting the person he truly _was_ from anyone who might try to take that away from him. The books were pure, undiluted _Bucky._

"I'll guard them with my life."

Bucky's shoulders relaxed. How long had he been leaving with the fear of losing them, or having them stolen, or damaged? Steve couldn't even imagine how exposed his friend must feel, with those words on paper, available for anyone to read. Well, that wouldn't happen. Not for as long as Steve drew breath. His friend's body would be safe in cryo, and his memories would be safe in Steve's hands. Or maybe something even better.

He left his friend to his notebook-sorting and slowly made his way back to the window where he'd gotten lost in his own thoughts. Maybe if he got lost enough, he wouldn't have to watch the one person who'd always been there for him, even when he had nothing else but the clothes on his back, step willingly into a dreamless sleep.

One day. That's all he had. One last day to spend with his best friend. There was so much that could be done, and yet none of it would ever be enough. One day was barely even enough time to properly say goodbye. Not when so many days had already been stolen from them forever.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: Epilogue and author's ramble coming up in the final chapter! If you're interested in hearing some more of Steve's thoughts about Tony, Bucky and what went down since Lagos, now would be a good time to check out my one-shot story, 'Hindsight,' if you haven't already read it. It's set in the same continuity/time-frame as this story, and meshes nicely between this chapter and the epilogue._


	27. Epilogue

Running To You

 _Epilogue_

Steve stepped out of the science lab and stood before four silent pairs of eyes. He voice, when he spoke, sounded as heavy as his heart felt in his chest; like it had lead weights attached to it. Like it had sunk into the deepest part of the Marianas Trench, where no light could penetrate.

"It's done."

Wanda was the first to react. She merely nodded, cast her pensive gaze to the floor, and walked away. She'd been uncharacteristically reclusive, since being sprung from The Raft. Steve knew he'd have to talk to her soon, to find out what was eating at her before it could drag her down into that trench, too. But until now, his mind had been consumed with thoughts of Bucky. With helping his friend, and then with spending one last day with his friend. Now, Bucky was gone. Suspended indefinitely in some frigid non-sleep.

Tomorrow, he would speak to Wanda.

"It feels so… sudden," Lang said. His hands were buried in his pockets, and he kicked the back of his own shoe in lieu of any other method of fidgeting. "I mean, one minute we were all having lunch, and the next it was, _'Oh, by the way, tonight I'm going into cryogenic sleep for several years.'_ Feels like we should at least have thrown him a going-away party."

Barton folded his arms across his chest, and looked more tired than Steve could ever remember him looking before. "If it wasn't for Laura and the kids, I'd be tempted to join him. Several years of sleep is sounding pretty good right about now."

"I have some things to take care of," Steve said. "Please excuse me."

He left the guys to their talking. One of their number had just gone into cryo, they were in a foreign country, far from their homes, with no idea of when they could go back or what they could do in the meantime. They were looking for reassurance, but Steve couldn't bring himself to look for the words to give them. Any words he gave them would have to be lies, unless those words were, _'I have no idea what to do next and am just as lost as you.'_ For the first time since he'd accepted the responsibility of being Captain America, the mantle of leadership felt _heavy._

Footsteps jogged after him, and Sam caught him up in a few long strides. Steve walked on in silence. He knew Sam wasn't looking for reassurance. Like Steve, he was a dandelion seed; he was happy to be blown about by the wind. He hadn't put down so many roots that he felt tied to one place. He didn't fit the 'wife and kids' pattern. He didn't have a family, outside of the Avengers. And now that family had been torn in half. The whole darn _world_ felt like it had been torn in half. Somehow, having Bucky around had made the world a little less broken, even after he'd said…

Steve pushed the thought away. ' _Don_ _'t leave me behind. Again.'_ Bucky hadn't meant it. Not really. But that didn't stop it from cutting deep. Thanks to Erskine's serum, he healed fast, but the knowledge that he'd left his best friend behind… he was still bleeding, from that one. Sometimes, he felt like the bleeding would never stop.

"You okay, Cap?"

He'd never been a good liar, so he told the truth. "No. I feel like I just lost my friend all over again. I thought getting Bucky back would make everything alright. But even when he was here, awake, there were problems he couldn't fix. Having him around made things _better_ , but it didn't make them _right._ And now… I don't know what to do. After everything that's happened… Tony, the Accords… I don't feel like Captain America anymore."

"Then maybe it's time for you to stop being Captain America for a while. What's wrong with being Steve Rogers? Between you and me, I kinda like that guy. Just don't tell him I said that; I heard he has a huge ego."

Steve smiled and shook his head. Sam, like Bucky, was the kinda guy who'd do anything to cheer a friend up, and Steve was lucky to have him.

"The way I see it," said Sam, after a moment of walking beside him, "the mission you gave yourself two years ago is over, and it's both succeeded, and failed. You got Barnes back, and he's safe. That's a success. But he's not in our world anymore, and you can't talk to him like you used to back in the old days. He's not the Bucky you remember. So in a way, that's a failure. I know how difficult it can be, when the outcome of a mission isn't clear-cut. It can really make a guy lose his sense of purpose. As can coming to the end of a tour and finding he has no more mission to follow. Nothing but endless free time, stretching out in front of him."

"Maybe I need a new mission."

"Or maybe you need to make friends with free time."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"Lemme know if you need someone to talk to," Sam offered. "Or if you need a sparring partner. Just as long as you promise not to hit too hard."

"I will. Thank you, Sam, for everything. I know you say I don't need to thank you because of that code—which, by the way, I'm still not convinced you didn't make up on the spot—but I want you to know how grateful I am for everything you've done. Not just for Captain America and the Avengers, but for me. Today, I had to say goodbye to a friend, but I'm glad I have more of them with me now. I know I've asked you, all of you, to make some difficult choices."

"Hey, the way I see it, I'm making the _right_ choices." Sam stopped to lay a hand on his shoulder. "The fact that my choices lay along the same lines as your choices just shows that we've got synergy. I think the same can be said for the whole team."

A grateful smile tugged at his lips. "Thanks, Sam. Tell you what, why don't I go take care of this thing I have to do, and then if you like, we can go check out the gym and training room here. T'Challa said we have full use of his facilities, and I think an hour of punching bag might help me loosen up after the unbelievably long week we've had."

"That sounds like a good idea. I'll see you down there."

Steve resumed his journey through the palace, until he reached a familiar door. For a long moment he stood outside it, preparing himself, and it brought back the memory of the last time he'd stood outside a door, preparing himself to do something difficult, something painful. The memory of that run-down, roach motel of an apartment complex, back in Bucharest.

Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and pushed the door open. This time, there was no Bucky to look up at him and smile. No Bucky to offer a joke and a laugh. Just an empty room, a neatly made bed covered in a plethora of cushions, and a beat up old backpack right in the middle of the cushion pile. As Steve reached out to pick up the pack, Bucky's voice came echoing back from earlier that afternoon, from the bench overlooking a series of beautiful cascading waterfalls—the place where they'd chosen to spend their last day. Just sitting, and talking. Remembering old times, and chatting about anything except what was about to happen next. Trying to delay the inevitable for one more moment.

 _"You won't forget about my memories, will you? You'll put them somewhere safe?"_

 _The expression on Bucky_ _'s face made something twist inside Steve's chest. It shouldn't have been possible for one pair of eyes to convey so much fear, and vulnerability, and doubt, and loneliness, but his friend managed it, and at that moment, Steve saw a Bucky he'd only ever seen once before in his whole life; the fifteen year old Bucky who blamed himself for his dog getting hit by a car. The Bucky who couldn't find a joke to make it all better, because there were some things which couldn't be fixed with a laugh and a smile._

 _"Don't worry," Steve assured him. "T'Challa's given me a real secure wall safe to use. I'll put your notebooks in there until you're ready to take them back."_

 _"Thanks, pal. I'm not ready for people to see them yet. One day… but not yet." His friend offered a wan smile. "I've miles to go, I think."_

He carried the bag out of the room, closing the door behind him, and he purposely didn't look back. There was no point remembering Bucky as an absent figure in an empty room. Bucky was downstairs, in cryosleep. And he was _here_ , in Steve's hands.

T'Challa had ordered the safe where he'd kept Hydra's Winter Soldier command book left open for Steve. It wasn't a large safe, certainly not large enough to fit a backpack in it, so Steve opened the bag up and took out the books one by one, placing them into the wall space. One book had _Hydra_ scribbled on the front, and Steve felt his hands clench tightly around it. Hydra had done this to Bucky. They'd turned him into their weapon, and done their best to destroy the man he had been. He wished he could burn the book, erase it, get rid of everything they had done… but burning the book wouldn't change history. Regardless of the book, Hydra had put their own stamp of evil on Bucky, and it was a testament to Bucky's strength and determination that he'd managed to come back from that.

He placed the book into the safe, followed by the others. When he came to one that had his own name scribbled across the front, he hesitated. Part of him wanted to know just how much Bucky _truly_ remembered about him. Did he remember the time Steve had been sick on the Cyclone at Coney Island? Did he remember the Christmas they'd spent in London in 1944, between missions with the Commandos? Did he remember Saturdays at the park, playing ball with Bucky's dad and Mary-Ann? Did he remember how they'd taught Charlie how to pitch? Or were those memories the miles Bucky had yet to cover?

The _Steve_ book followed the others. He hadn't had to wrestle with his conscience for very long. Bucky said he wasn't ready for people to see his memories, and Steve would honour that. These books were a part of Bucky that Bucky himself wasn't in a position to protect, and it made Steve feel warm inside, gave him hope for the future, that Bucky had trusted him to protect them in his stead.

When he reached the bottom of the bag, his fingers brushed against something cool and hard. Reaching a little further, he grasped whatever it was and pulled it out, and found himself looking at… a small, painted wooden doll. Brows lowered into a perplexed frown. He recognised the style of nesting doll, but what the heck would his friend be doing with something so… so… odd? Bucky had never been one for collecting trinkets, and he doubted the Winter Soldier cared anything for old-fashioned Russian dolls.

He dropped the bag and took hold of the doll with both hands, gently twisting and pulling until the outer shell separated to reveal a smaller doll inside. He went through the process several times, until he came to the smallest doll layer. Usually it held a tiny wooden baby doll inside, but this one felt too light to hold a piece of wood, and when he gently shook it, he heard only the smallest, faintest of sounds.

Curiosity drove him forward. He opened the smallest doll, and when he saw what was there, his breath caught in his throat, bringing with it a lump that he struggled to swallow. There was no brightly painted tiny baby doll, inside the last matryoshka. Instead, there was a small slip of paper, and on that paper, in Bucky's spidery scrawl, was written a single word.

 _Me._

\- o -

An End

\- o -

.

* * *

 _Final Note: Thank you so much to everyone who_ _'s read, reviewed and rambled with me during Bucky's journey. Seeing the same readers—some of you from far-away, interesting, exotic places I'll probably never have the chance to visit (Malaysia? Puerto Rico? Vietnam? Cool!)—come back for more each time a new chapter was published gave me some very happy feels deep inside. I especially appreciate all the feedback reviewers have given; knowing what works (and what doesn't) is important to me as a writer, and it helps me to develop my skills and style. I really hope you've enjoyed the story I've told._

 _A few folks have asked where I_ _'m taking Bucky next. After seeing CW, and being disappointed about the lack of a Winter Soldier smack-down, I wanted to rectify that with a sequel. So, I wrote the first twenty or so chapters. Then I realised they were often flat, repetitive and generically unremarkable. I just didn't have a good enough grasp on who Bucky was and where he had been, to give real emotional weight to the story. Hence my incentive for writing_ Running To You _—I needed a proper foundation to write from. And maybe one day I will go and re-write those chapters, and if I can ever figure out how I want that story to end, I may even publish it._

 _But whilst writing this story, something happened that I wasn_ _'t expecting. As soon as I started doing flashbacks to Bucky's time in the 107th, those characters started coming alive in my head. First Carrot, then Wells, then Gusty; and now all those other guys, whose names have been only footnotes in Bucky's memories, are fully realised. They're funny, tragic, quirky, perfect, flawed human beings trying their best to make sense of the madness of war whilst it tears their world apart. And, of course, the Commandos and Steve, and Peggy and Stark (et al.) will be there too, at the appropriate points._

 _So I_ _'m doing a prequel! I'm 15 chapters in, and having a great time writing it. There's much more light-hearted humour in that story than in this one… military humour is so much fun to play with. It will eventually go AU, but until it does, it will pretty much follow canon. The war is the setting, but it's not the story. It can probably be best described as an exploratory emotional adventure drama about friendship, camaraderie and loss, with a very slow-burning romance. The next story is called 'We Were Soldiers' and I hope you'll join me for it on Sunday 11th September. – (I know, lame title. When I came up with it, I'd completely forgotten it was the title of a film. In my defence, it's a_ Mel Gibson _film, I haven_ _'t actually seen it, and my knowledge of the Vietnam War comes from 'Good Morning, Vietnam.' I'd change my title, but I'm kinda attached to it now.)_

 _\- TUS_


End file.
